The 10 P.M. Question (21 page)

Gigs loosened his embrace of the trombone and raised it almost absentmindedly to his lips. He played low, somehow thoughtful notes, pushing the slide slowly, as if he were half asleep.

“But can’t Sydney live with her dad?” he said, halting momentarily. “Can’t she go to Holland — she loves it there — she could just live with the O.” Sydney’s dad’s name was Theo, pronounced
Tay-oh,
but Sydney called him the O as a joke. Usually it made Frankie and Gigs laugh, but right now neither of them could raise even a lip curl.

“That’s what I thought, too,” said Frankie. “But Freya won’t let her. She gets more money from the government — the more kids she has, the more she gets. Plus money from the O. She goes through a lot of money.”

“Plus she needs Sydney to babysit,” he added bitterly.

Gigs was leaning forward on the edge of the bed now, head down, the trombone between his knees. He blew the first notes of “When the Saints.” The pace was so funereal, it sounded both mournful
and
comical. Frankie imagined a robot choir with waning batteries:
Oh. When. The. Saints. Oh. When. The. Saints. Come. Mar. Ching. In
. . .

Gigs tried again. “But couldn’t she tell the O? Couldn’t she tell
someone
? She has to. Welfare or something? They could go to court, you know. He could get — what’s it called? — custody, like Victor’s granddad.”

(Victor Bowyer sat at the Roget table in room 11. He was very skinny, with a number-one haircut and a tattooed ring finger. He was shy, too, almost never speaking, but he was mildly famous at Notts anyway, because his mother was dead and his grandparents had been granted custody of him over his father in a court battle. And also, of course, because he arrived at school each day on the back of his granddad’s massive Moto Guzzi Jackal.)

Frankie sighed. “I said that, too. But she doesn’t want to leave Galway and Calcutta. And if she says stuff about her mother, they could get taken away from her, her sisters — put in foster homes. She’s scared about all that.”

“She really likes those sisters,” said Gigs, the notion quite foreign to him, Frankie knew. Probably Gigs would have liked nothing better than some government agency helpfully whipping away his siblings. As if this thought had somehow penetrated the bedroom walls and communicated itself to Gigs’s twin brothers, they knocked that very moment on the door. They made a habit of this whenever Frankie and Gigs were sequestered; it made Gigs crazy.

“Albert wants to see Frankie,” said the twins in singsong tones. Frankie and Gigs listened to them giggling and shuffling, banging Albert’s cage against the door and provoking indignant squawks from the long-suffering parrot. Frankie smothered a smile. The twins were called Jock and Barty. They were six years old, with red hair, freckles, and gap-toothed grins, and Frankie found them very entertaining, though he was careful never to show too much enthusiasm for them around Gigs. He played checkers with them sometimes, or sat dutifully while they performed inexpert card tricks. He did birdcalls for them and drew episodes in an ongoing cartoon he had devised for their amusement, called
Herbert Pterodactylis
. Gigs didn’t plan on taking any notice of his brothers until they developed decent batting stances.

“Albert can say
Where’s Frankie?
” chorused the twins. “He really can!”

Gigs rolled his eyes operatically. He crossed the room, opened the door, blew a strident trombone note in his brothers’ faces, and shut the door again.

“Monica speaking! Monica speaking! Monica speaking!”
Albert squawked. The twins laughed hysterically and ran away.

Gigs thumped down on the bed and resumed his somber tooting. Frankie put Letnan Dua Fox (Indonesian; disguised as a nun; weapon: exploding rosary beads) at the rear of his troop, beside Segundo Tenente Fox (Brazil), who bore a strong resemblance to Mr. A. He had shoulder-length white hair and a livid facial scar; his weapon was the dictionary.

“So,” said Gigs minutes later. He stood up and put the trombone back in its case. “Yendys vist nottam willynets.
Bonga!
You skipped camp and now Sydney’s leaving. Great.”

“Sorry about that, chief,” said Frankie, like Maxwell Smart. They both managed a small laugh.

“But Sydney,” said Gigs. He sat back heavily on the bed. “Man.”

Frankie leaned back on his chair and assessed the Second-Left Army. What a deranged crew. Could they actually win a fight? Maybe they would simply disarm the enemy with their unlikeliness. The enemy would be rendered stationary with shock and awe by the lunatic costumes and weapons. The enemy would lie down and laugh.

“Any new Foxes?” Frankie asked. He was feeling immensely tired.

“Yeah,” said Gigs. He rummaged under his desk and pulled out a model-in-progress. “Molazem Thani Fox from Jordan,” he said. “I think I’ll give him a musket. What do you reckon?”

Molazem Thani Fox was bald and seemed to be wearing a Speedo. They were definitely getting weirder, Frankie thought. Everything was getting weirder.

“There are no second lieutenants in the Indian Army,” said Gigs. “I wanted to do a Sikh.”

“He could be a Sikh from another country,” said Frankie. “He could have grown up somewhere else.” Funny the way they could just keep talking about other things.

“S’pose,” said Gigs. “And there’s no Japanese Army at
all
.”

“We have to do something about Sydney,” said Frankie.

“We could kidnap her,” said Gigs. “
No,
kidnap Freya. Hold her for ransom. Make her do . . . Make her
promise
. . . something . . .” His voice trailed off.

Frankie lay Molazem Thani Fox facedown on top of Gigs’s dictionary, a sacrificial offering on a high altar. He slid the dictionary across the desk so it was in the path of the oncoming Second-Left.

“Something,” he murmured. “Huh.”

“But what
can
we do?” said Frankie to Gordana. He was full of doubt now.

Gordana faced him, the fashion quiz forgotten for the moment. She had finished the marshmallow egg.

It was 5:57 p.m. according to Gordana’s computer screen; soon, the Aunties would be here. It was beef Stroganoff tonight, with rice and string beans, meringues and raspberry sauce for dessert. To be followed by a game of Shogun. It was Nellie’s birthday and Louie was coming, too.

Frankie couldn’t bear, sometimes, the way the rest of life just rolled predictably on and on — school, homework, soccer practice, Aunties, birthdays, the dull inevitability of
meals
— when other crucial matters were so consuming, so upsetting, so un
solved
.

“Zip,” said Gordana. She frowned at Frankie, rotating with clockwork precision on her office chair, left, right, left, right . . . “Zero. Nothing. You can’t do anything.”

“But why not?” said Frankie. “It’s
wrong.
Making Sydney look after her sisters is
wrong
. Using her money — it’s
her
money — it’s
wrong
. Getting welfare money is
wrong.
Getting money from those men is
wro
—”

“Right, Reverend Frankie,” said Gordana.

“Shut up,” said Frankie. “
You
think it’s wrong.”

“Maybe,” said Gordana. “Probably. But who knows? Maybe she’s got reasons. Maybe she’s just trying to survive.”

“I hate her,” said Frankie.

“Maybe she can’t do anything else,” said Gordana. “Maybe she’s just looking out for her kids — you know, like a lioness or a vixen with their cubs, going for the main chance.”

“Looking out for
herself,
” Frankie’s voice had risen. “She’s a —” But he choked on the word. He hadn’t been able to say the word at all, not even in his head; it seemed somehow unkind to Sydney.

“Do you think she’s a . . . ?” He left it there, the word hanging, unspoken, in the mango-scented air of Gordana’s bedroom.

“A hoo —”

“Don’t
say
it,” said Frankie. It came out like a moan.

“Oh, good
God,
Reverend
Mother
Frankie.” Gordana slid off her office chair and strode over to the closet. “Don’t be so feeble. Not saying
hooker
won’t change anything.”

Frankie ground his face into the duvet.

“Hooker,” said Gordana mercilessly. “Ho. Prostitute. Call girl. Whore. Trollop. Slapper. Scrubber.” She was on a stool now, reaching up for a box on the shelf above her clothes.

It was a fact, Frankie thought. Mere words
could
make you nauseous.

“I’m giving you aversion therapy,” said Gordana. “You say the bad things and then they don’t — aha!”

She turned on the stool and tossed something across to Frankie. Thanks to years of throw-downs, his arm shot up reflexively and caught it before he could even think. A packet of Spaceman Candies.

“I just remembered I had these in my bird flu emergency box,” said Gordana, more packets in hand.

Frankie pulled a sick face at the box.

“Oh, good
God,
” said Gordana. “She’s probably not a hooker. She’s just kind of a kept woman. Think of her like that. Like kings’ mistresses, way back. The kings gave them castles. Her boyfriends just pay for her favors.”

“What’s the difference?” said Frankie miserably.

“Depends how you look at it, I s’pose,” said Gordana. She was making a diamond-shaped stack on her desk with the candy sticks.

Frankie opened his box and looked at the candy. When he was younger, Spaceman Candies had been called Spaceman Cigarettes and had been painted pink at the tip. On the Saturday bus to the library, he and Gordana had smoked them before eating — inhaling and blowing out with hilarious extravagance. Not calling them Spaceman Cigarettes
had
changed things.

“But why
can’t
we do something?”

“Number one,” said Gordana, “it’s not illegal. She can get a heap of money from her boyfriends if she wants to. It’s only illegal if she gets welfare, too, yes, yes,
which
she does. . . . But number two, you said the kids could get taken away if anyone turns her in. Number three, Sydney would probably never talk to you again. Think how it would be for her.”

Frankie admitted silently that of course she was right. Gordana always put things very
clearly
— even when she was in a rage. Though, right now she was actually being friendly. Almost kind. Amid his misery, Frankie registered a small warm gratefulness.

“Number four,” said Gordana. “Freya would probably just move away; she could leave the country. Doesn’t she do that?”

“Yes,” said Frankie, infinitely depressed. “She promised they’d stay here a year, but she lies.” He said this as if enumerating yet another in a dark catalog of sins. In his head Freya had grown horns and a tail and malignant black eyes. Frankie had begun imagining punishments for her: broken limbs, hair loss, knee-capping, the electric chair . . .

“She’s such a
liar,
” he said.

“Poor old Franko,” said Gordana, looking at him. Her voice was softer. It was a long time, Frankie reflected, since she’d called him Franko. It had been all Freak-Boy for months.

“You shouldn’t worry so much,” she said.

Frankie grunted.
What
an original thought. If only it was minutely possible. He lay back on the bed again, the despair fingering his neck.

Downstairs, the front door banged and the Aunties’ combined
yoo-hoo
s rang out. Soon Louie would arrive and Ray Davies would sniff the trail leading to Frankie. Frankie smiled faintly, thinking how nice, if somewhat damp, Ray Davies’s enthusiastic greetings were. But time was running out; he wanted to make the most of Gordana’s rare tender mood.

“Here comes half the Fat Ladies’ Choir,” said Gordana. She began droning a dismal tune, dragging it out comically. It was one of Uncle George’s late night hymns. “
O
God
our
help
in
a-
ges
past . . .”

“Hard not to worry,” said Frankie into the duvet, but Gordana didn’t hear him.

She stopped singing. “Hey, Franko.”

He rolled over. Gordana was standing slouched, her thumbs in the belt hooks of her jeans, eyes narrowed, a candy stick stuck to her lips. It was her old Cowboy Smoking pose. Frankie giggled.

“But really,” Gordana said, straightening up, slurping the stick expertly into her mouth, “it’s just not the same now, without the pink ends. Why’d they have to change the name, for God’s sake? Ruin kids’ fun.
Typical
.”

“I’ve got this rash,” said Frankie.

Gordana looked lengthily at him, then gathered her features slowly into Long-Suffering Face and rolled her eyes. It was so long since Frankie had seen her do this that he felt like hugging her.

“Oh, good
God,
” she said as Frankie lifted his T-shirt. She peered at his chest for some seconds.

“Jock itch,” she pronounced.

“It’s on my
chest
.”

“You can get jock itch anywhere,” said Gordana with great authority. “It’s just a fungus. Sporting types get it. Ben gets it in his armpit, plus his actual jock area.”

“Don’t tell me that,” said Frankie. “I don’t want to think about your boyfriend’s private bits.”

“That’s sad for you,” said Gordana, and they both giggled. “Put some of Uncle George’s athlete’s foot stuff on it,” she said.

“Foot cream for jock itch on your chest,” said Frankie. It made no sense. Nothing made sense. “Are you sure it’s that? Really sure? How do you know?”

“Frankie.”
Her voice had the familiar dangerous impatience, but at least she wasn’t calling him Freak-Boy. “Put the cream on and see. It’ll take about three days, then it’ll start going away. Guaranteed.” She began sliding the office chair backward to the computer.

But he couldn’t feel relieved yet. Not until he saw the evidence. If only it could prove one less thing to fret about.

“Hard not to worry,” he said again, low.

Gordana paused mid-swivel. “You would know,” she said.

“Don’t you
ever
worry?” said Frankie. It came out like a bleat.

“One,” said Gordana. “What’s the
point
? Things might never happen. Waste of head space. Two, I’m not wired for it. I’m like Louie. We didn’t get the gene.” She slid off her chair and walked over to the balcony doors, pressed her nose to the glass. It was nearly dark now, but a headlight raked the room. “Speak of the devil,” said Gordana.