Cockatiels at Seven (4 page)

“She didn’t say. And it didn’t seem important for ‘just a little while,’ but after six hours, I want to know.”

I hit the speed-dial button I’d assigned to Karen’s cell phone and put it on speaker. Michael and I both
stared at the phone as it rang unanswered twelve times before the phone company’s generic answering message kicked in.

“Chase me, Auntie Meg! Chase me!” Timmy shrieked, and began running around our lawn chairs.

“Not again,” I muttered. I began levering myself out of the chair.

“Relax; I’ll chase him for a while,” Michael said.

“Timmy, Michael’s going to chase you,” I said.

Timmy took off. Clearly, a track and field scholarship was a strong possibility for him in another fourteen or fifteen years. Maybe even cross-country. And Michael was much more enthusiastic about chasing than I was, and did a better job at it.

Of course, he’d only been here five minutes. Give it time.

I leaned back and closed my eyes.

My cell phone rang. Not Karen, alas. But a useful call, nevertheless. Dad, reporting in on a sleuthing mission I’d assigned him.

“No sign of her in any of the nearby hospitals,” he said. “And Sammy hasn’t heard anything useful, either.” Since Sammy was in the Caerphilly County police force, with access to all the local scoop about accidents and arrests, this was useful news. At least Karen probably hadn’t gone straight from our road to a hospital, jail, or morgue.

“Thanks,” I said. “Let me know if you hear anything.”

“I’ll keep my ears open. Bye.” He was probably already doing more than keeping his ears open. He was probably badgering all sorts of people for information.
Mother and Dad had only recently bought the farm next door—partly to save it from development and partly so he and Mother could have a pied-à-terre near any grandchildren Michael and I might produce. And they weren’t there full time—Mother liked to refer to it as their summer place, though I suspected they’d find an excuse to visit any time of the year that something interesting was going on here. But already, Dad was more securely plugged into the local grapevine than Michael and I ever would be. So if there was anything to be learned about Karen’s whereabouts, Dad would find it, and if there wasn’t—well, at least people would be keeping an eye out for her.

“Horsie-horsie! Horsie-horsie!”

I glanced up to see that Michael was giving Timmy a piggyback ride. Timmy had worn out five human steeds so far this afternoon—me, Dad, Rob, and two cousins unlucky enough to drop by for a visit. I wondered how long Michael would last.

Michael either enjoyed Timmy’s company or pretended to, freeing me to clean up some of the chaos our little visitor had created in the house and start thinking about dinner. A good ten seconds of thought convinced me that with Timmy underfoot and the thermometer hovering near ninety, cooking was not a sensible option. I placed a carryout order for pizza and Greek salad at Luigi’s, our favorite local restaurant, and convinced Rob to pick up the food. Actually, it didn’t take much convincing, partly because Rob had never met a pizza he didn’t adore, and partly because he suspected he’d get drafted to help with Timmy if he didn’t make the pizza run.

As usual, I ordered enough food to feed at least twice as many people as I was expecting. Not surprisingly, Mother, Dad, Rose Noire, and Dr. Blake appeared shortly after Rob and the food arrived—though they claimed to be less interested in the food than in taking advantage of the wide-screen TV Dad had given us for Christmas and the satellite system that had been Rob’s housewarming gift.

“My new special is on
Animal Planet
tonight,” Dr.
Blake announced. “The latest one in the ‘Animals at Risk’ series.”

“Oh, those are the shows where you rescue different animals that are being tortured or exploited, aren’t they?” Rose Noire asked. “I’m not even sure you should be showing that kind of violence. Especially not to impressionable minds,” she added, nodding toward Timmy.

I closed my eyes and sighed, hoping she and Dr. Blake wouldn’t start another of their arguments. For two people who both loved animals as much as they did, they could certainly find a remarkable number of animal-related issues to disagree about.

But to my relief, instead of staying to argue, Rose Noire volunteered to take Timmy off our hands while the rest of us ate. Of course, everyone else went running outside as soon as they heard the ghastly moans coming from the backyard.

“Relax,” I called after them. “Rose Noire is trying to teach him to meditate.”

“To meditate?” Michael said, pausing in the doorway. “That horrible noise is meditating?”

“She’s chanting ‘om,’”I explained. “That’s Timmy’s version of om.”

He went to look anyway, and then came trooping back sheepishly with the others when he discovered that no one was being tortured. Well, perhaps Rose Noire was, but she was gritting her teeth and enduring it.

Everyone else still flinched when a particularly heart-rending groan resounded from the yard. I found myself wondering if I’d discovered an important truth normally revealed only to actual parents: that you can find even the most horrible racket soothing if it’s far
enough away and demonstrates that the child responsible is still perfectly healthy.

Still, I wasn’t sorry when Dad and Dr. Blake offered to take a turn amusing Timmy after dinner. And I felt positively mellow when Mother took Rob and Rose Noire off to do the dishes.

“Meg has had a difficult day,” Mother said.

I leaned back, poured myself another glass of wine, and savored being alone with Michael for the first time all day.

“You did have a difficult day,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault,” I said. “Not even Timmy’s fault. Karen, now—when she finally turns up, I have a bone to pick with her.”

“What if she doesn’t turn up until sometime tomorrow?”

“We’ve already taken that possibility into account,” I said. “Remember, the mountain of equipment she left included a portable crib. I set it up in the bedroom next to ours at naptime. We hauled the rest of his stuff up there for the time being—it was in the way down here in the hall.”

“So he’ll be fine tonight,” Michael said. “But tomorrow?”

My stomach suddenly tightened, and I pushed my glass away. What if she didn’t turn up tomorrow? What if she never turned up at all? What if she had dumped Timmy on us before disappearing as completely as Amelia Earhart and Jimmy Hoffa? The mountain of equipment had also included a bag containing a Timmy-sized snowsuit and two matched knitted hat and mitten sets.

“I’ll manage tomorrow,” I said. “I just hope everyone who helped with Timmy today doesn’t get wise and disappear.”

“Maybe your mother could help.”

“Mother? Are you crazy?” I had to chuckle at the idea, and my stomach unclenched a bit. I tried another sip of wine.

“Well, she’s done it before, hasn’t she?” Michael said. “I know it’s been quite a while since she’s taken care of a toddler—”

“Meaning quite a while since I was a toddler? Gee, thanks.”

“Actually I was only thinking about the ten years or so since your nieces and nephews were toddlers.”

“Good save. But no, Mother was never a hands-on grandmother. For that matter, she was never a hands-on mother. She doesn’t do childcare—she delegates.”

“You mean you had nannies?”

“No, but we always had two or three needy relatives living with us. Aunts or cousins who were going through what the family euphemistically calls ‘a bad patch.’ A messy divorce, a complicated bankruptcy, something like that. They did the diapers and midnight feedings and potty training—anything messy or strenuous.”

Considering the look on Michael’s face, I decided not to tell him about Cousin Alice, the relative who had spent the most time taking care of me during my first three or four years. Even though it was justifiable homicide and she’d served her time, I sensed he wouldn’t react well.

“So your mother didn’t actually do anything?” he asked.

“She was an early adopter of the ‘it takes a village’
approach to child-rearing. With Mother in the all-important role of lady of the manor. She supervised.”

“That’s it?”

“If you’re wondering, I don’t think it’s ideal, and it’s not how I’d approach parenthood, but it worked pretty well. Pam and Rob and I didn’t turn out too warped, did we? Well, Pam and I, at least. And you can probably put down Rob’s eccentricities as much to heredity as environment.”

“It’s . . . different,” he said. “And it does rather explain a few things.”

“Such as?”

“Well, it explains why you’re not bothered by Rob moving in.”

“Moving in where? Here? You’re joking, right?”

“He hasn’t formally moved in—no mail forwarding or anything. But he has started leaving a bunch of his stuff in one of the bedrooms on the third floor.”

“You’re serious. How long has this been going on?”

“Couple of weeks. It wasn’t till this week he brought over the sleeping bag. He probably doesn’t realize anyone noticed.”

I closed my eyes and counted to ten. I knew Rob wasn’t happy at the run-down apartment building where he’d been living, and several times I’d suggested that I’d gladly help him look for a better place. If he’d gotten fed up with the Whispering Pines, why couldn’t Rob just come out and ask if he could stay with us while he found new quarters? Since the house was several times larger than we could possibly need, his chances of guilt-tripping us into saying yes were probably near a hundred percent.

Unless his plan was just to move in and skip hunting for a new place altogether. Also a possibility. Why did everyone in my family have to sneak around and make things dramatic and complicated and—

“I’ll talk to him,” I said.

“I’m not saying it’s a problem or anything, Rob being here,” Michael said. “I just didn’t want it to come as a big shock if you found out yourself.”

“Good; so you won’t mind if I don’t kick him out immediately. He might come in handy with Timmy.”

“He might come in handy generally,” Michael said. And then, as if deciding he’d veered too close to the all-important subject of starting a family of our own, he chuckled and added, “If only to have someone willing to take care of Spike when we need a break.”

Just then Rob came strolling in holding Timmy at arm’s length.

“Knee Pompey,” Timmy said. At least that’s what it sounded like—I had no idea what he actually meant, though from his expression, Timmy clearly thought he was imparting critical information.

“He’s starting to smell really bad,” Rob said. “Here, take a whiff.”

“I don’t need to take a whiff,” I said, holding out my hands to keep Rob from shoving Timmy’s diapered bottom under my nose. “I can tell from here that he needs a new diaper.”

“A diaper?” Rob repeated. He managed to give the impression that this was a new vocabulary word whose meaning he didn’t quite comprehend.

I closed my eyes and took a deep breath before realizing that the calming effect of deep breathing wasn’t
nearly as effective downwind of a poopy diaper. I wasn’t too fond of the diaper routine myself, and would really rather not do it right now, when we were about to cut the chocolate cake Dad had brought over. But someone had to do it.

“There’s a whole box of them up in his room,” Michael said. I opened my eyes to see that he had stood up and, wineglass in hand, was leading the way toward the stairs. “I’ll show you how to do it so you’ll know for next time.”

Rob blinked a couple of times, then obediently followed Michael upstairs.

“I knew there was a reason I married him,” I murmured as I listened to the diaper-changing lesson in progress upstairs and nibbled my cake.

I pulled out Timmy’s instruction manual and checked my watch. It was seven-thirty. His normal bedtime was supposed to be eight. And surely, given the amount of exercise he’d had today, he’d be ready to sleep on time, wouldn’t he? So since we already had him upstairs, I decided to go up and suggest that someone—me, if necessary—read him a few stories until he was ready to drop off to sleep.

Half an hour later, I’d read Timmy a couple of the Dr. Seuss books Karen had left as part of his baggage and Michael had told him several charming bedtime stories involving llamas or big noisy trucks. I was just tucking him in with Kiki clutched in one hand and Blanky in the other and whispering “night-night” when Rob strolled in.

“Hey,” he said, in ordinary tone of voice that sounded like a bellow compared to the soothing, hushed tones
I’d been using. “Grandad’s on TV. Come on; it starts in five minutes.”

“TV?” Timmy’s head snapped up.

“Dammit, it’s his bedtime,” I said, waving the instruction manual. “I nearly had him settled down.”

“Watch TV,” Timmy said, popping up like a prairie dog peering out of its hole.

Dr. Blake strode in.

“This is educational,” he said. “Come on, Timmy—you want to see the turtles, don’t you?”

“Turrels! Turrels!” Timmy repeated. “Want see turrels!”

Rob picked Timmy up and hoisted him to the ground. Timmy sprinted for the door, collided with Dr. Blake’s legs, and ricocheted out into the hall.

“Timmy, be careful,” I called after him.

Blake tottered, and both Rob and I leaped to make sure he didn’t fall over. Rob missed, but I caught Blake’s arm and found myself supporting his whole weight for a few seconds.

“Damn,” he muttered. He scowled at me, then righted himself. “Energetic little cuss, isn’t he?”

He stomped toward the door.

“You’re welcome,” I said under my breath. I underestimated his hearing. He whirled around, still scowling, and put his hands on his hips.

“Yes, I’m an ungrateful old devil, aren’t I?” he said. “I’m well aware of how lucky I was just now that it was you standing there instead of some wilting lily who couldn’t keep me from falling on my keister. Now come watch my TV show.”

With that, he stormed out.

Since I’ve always found it difficult to sit still and watch television without something to keep my hands busy, I brought along a project to work on during Dr. Blake’s documentary. I unearthed a suitably sized three-ring notebook, a hole punch, and some tab dividers, and was turning Karen’s inch-thick sheaf of notes into a more organized manual.