The 10 P.M. Question (27 page)

It was an awful lie, and also, what was he
doing
? His heart was nearly bursting with sadness at the thought of Sydney leaving, but here he was willfully not making the most of every single moment before she was gone, possibly forever.

“I can help!” Sydney said. “I’m an excellent baker’s assistant; you know I am.”

“Not enough room in the kitchen,” said Frankie. He was sitting on the garden bench with the Fat Controller, looking back at the house. The bench was damp after rain and now the seat of his jeans was damp, too, but he hardly noticed. He was so tired, his eyes had become watery. The house blurred and wobbled in the thin morning sun.

“What’s the matter, Frankie?” Sydney had said. Her voice came from a long way off.

“What’s the
matter,
Franko?” said Gordana again. Her voice was distant, too.

Frankie made a great effort and focused on his sister. She wasn’t looking at him. She had lifted the kereru feather from Morrie’s skull and was brushing it back and forth over the top of his desk, a delicate, painterly gesture.

“Sydney’s leaving,” he said, and was surprised in a remote kind of way. He hadn’t known he was going to say this. His mouth had just done it. Now his brain was mildly curious to see what Gordana would say.

Gordana put the feather back in Morrie’s skull and picked up Agent 99 and Maxwell Smart. She stood them close together on the desk, facing each other, their perfectly shaped Fimo noses nearly touching.

“Oh,
Max,
” drawled Gordana in 99’s American accent. Then in her own voice she said, “Where’re they going?”

“Sydney,” said Frankie.

Sydney of Sydney.

Gordana put Agent 99 and Maxwell back in Kidder’s lap. “Does Ma know?”

“Haven’t told anyone else,” said Frankie. He leaned back against the headboard and closed his eyes.

“When do they go?” said Gordana.

“Three weeks.”

The room was very quiet.

“Poor Frankie,” said Gordana.

He wanted to say, “She’s not my girlfriend.” But he couldn’t be bothered. What was the point? He kept his eyes closed. He remembered how he used to sleep with Kidder beside him in the bed; he remembered the creaky touch of Kidder’s synthetic fur, his comforting smell.

“Go away,” he said to Gordana, and she had gone, out of his room, shutting the door softly.

On Sunday night, Frankie had gotten out of bed and started down the hall, muzzy and unsteady. He wanted to tell Ma he was sorry for shaking off her hand; he wanted to say he was sorry for avoiding her, for hardly looking at her yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. He had hovered at the door of Ma and Uncle George’s room, shivering and stiff, faltering, his hand going up to the door handle and down again. Then he had turned and gone slowly back to his room.

On Monday there was a rainstorm, and Frankie lay in bed, listening to the wind and the thrashing tree branches. He dozed, the Fat Controller on his feet, Kidder tucked down under the duvet where no one could see him. It was so warm in bed, and his thoughts were blessedly neutral while he slept.

Sometime in the morning Ma knocked on the door and called his name softly.

“Are you awake, Frankie? It’s Sydney on the phone.”

He didn’t answer, pretending to be asleep. He heard Ma walk away.

“I think he’s coming down with something,” she was saying. “It’s funny: he quite often gets sick during vacation. Does that happen to you?”

In the afternoon she knocked again, and this time when he didn’t answer, she came in to his room. Frankie lay very still and kept his eyes closed, but soon a pleasant smell reached his nose. Chicken soup. Ma always had chicken soup there when he was sick.

He could feel her looking down at him.

“C’mon, Frankie, sit up. I’ve got soup. It’s good you’re sleeping, but you need to eat, too.”

He struggled up in the bed and the Fat Controller moved lumpily and complained, then jumped crossly to the floor. Frankie stared at the tray on his lap. He didn’t want to look up at Ma, look at her nice gray eyes, the concern or reproach that might be on her face. He hadn’t looked at her at all for days; he hadn’t wanted to see any kind of expression on her face. He kept his head down when she came near him, or looked away; he looked a lot at other things, everything, anything except Ma.

“I’ve got the flu or something,” he said.

“You’re probably just very tired.” She stood, waiting. Frankie picked up the spoon and held it over the soup, watching the steam creep around the spoon.

“Sydney rang,” said Ma. “She told me about leaving.”

Frankie brought the back of the spoon down slowly on some floating parsley, submerging it.

“You’re really going to miss her, I know,” said Ma.

“She’s not my girlfriend,” he said flatly.

“I know,” said Ma. “I know.”

A burst of rain beat against the window. The Fat Controller yawned and began loudly washing herself.

“Would you like some bread with that?” said Ma.

“No, thanks,” said Frankie. He kept his eyes on the bowl, sipping the soup.

“Frankie,” said Ma from the doorway, “is . . . ? Can I?” Her voice faltered. “Is there —?”

“Thanks for the soup,” said Frankie, cutting her off, still not looking.

The door closed gently.

On Monday evening, Uncle George knocked on the door and came in.

“You not too good, old man?”

Frankie was lying on his side. He was concentrating on a memory: his first wicket in Intermediate Reps. It had been early in the season, a windy day, and though he was the smallest and skinniest, he was the one who always bowled into the wind. It was because he was so economical, so reliable.

“Go, Frankie! Frankie’s our postman!” Dr. Pete yelled from the sideline. “Always delivers!”

And almost never gets wickets, Frankie had thought, turning for his run up.

But then it had happened. It was a kid from a North Island school; he had a brand-new cricket jersey and elegant strokes. But Frankie’s ball had hit his middle stump and sent the bails flying. The click of those skittled bails was the most beautiful sound Frankie had ever heard.

“You awake, old man?” said Uncle George.

Frankie grunted, pulled himself away from the high-fives and cheers and the very satisfactory look of disappointment on the batsman’s face. Underwood. That was his name. Good joke.

“Got the flu?” said Uncle George. He sat down on the bed, and Frankie rolled over, squinting up at his father.

“Probably,” said Frankie.

“Game of Last Card?”

Uncle George always played Last Card with them when they were sick. It was the perfect game for invalids, he said, because it only demanded a tiny bit of brain and it distracted you from the throat-cutting boredom of the sickbed.

Uncle George was a terrible patient. He was hardly ever sick, but when he was obliged to take to his bed, everyone else scattered; otherwise he press-ganged you into nursing slavery. He roared increasingly precise demands from the bed: Could he have something decent to read? Some extra pillows. The radio. Some candy. Some weak tea,
weak
tea, with half a teaspoon of sugar and just a drop of milk, just a
drop
. And a Malt Biscuit. With butter. No, without butter. No, no, with just a scraping of butter and a smidgen of plum jam.

A couple of winters back, he’d had a knee operation and been confined to the sofa for two weeks. Frankie had assumed nursing duty and manfully returned the Last Card favor; he’d played every day after school and most of the weekend, though Uncle George ceaselessly disputed the rules. Frankie had finally dug his heels in over the matter of reversing jacks, and Uncle George had gone into a sulk.

That seemed forever ago now; Frankie couldn’t imagine playing Last Card ever again.

“No, thanks,” he said.

“I heard about Sydney,” said Uncle G. He patted Frankie’s hunched form under the duvet.

Frankie grunted again.

“Real shame,” said Uncle George. “She’s a great girl.”

Yes,
thought Frankie.

“So, Louie rang,” said Uncle George. “This T-shirt and bandanna thing’s looking good. He’s found a couple of machinists. And he seems to have convinced Gordana. Wait for the fireworks!”

Grunt.

“Parsons and Parsons,” said Uncle George.

Won’t last,
thought Frankie.

“Could be Parsons, Parsons, and Parsons,” said Uncle George. “Louie’s keen for your birds — big market there, I reckon. People can’t get enough of native birds.”

Grunt.

“Better let you get some more sleep.” Uncle George patted him again. “Best medicine.”

He stood, waiting for something.

“’Night,” said Frankie.

He closed his eyes and saw two aral birds, dull-colored and lifeless, lumps of dusty feathers discarded on the floorboards of a tree house.

At 1:50 a.m. Tuesday, Frankie put
Asterix and Cleopatra
back on the pile beside the bed and turned the light off once more. He lay back down and closed his eyes, though he had no expectation of sleep. The buzzing sensation on his skin was becoming more and more pronounced. More accurately, it was just under his skin. It was as if a vast colony of mosquitoes had settled there and was concertedly humming.

He wondered if it was kidney disease. Or septicemia. Or perhaps the buzzing feeling wasn’t there at all and he was just a paranoid schizophrenic with delusions. Vienna’s older brother was schizophrenic and believed the city council was poisoning the water system. He drank only bottled water from France. His name was Julian and sometimes he came to school to pick up Vienna. Julian seemed perfectly normal to Frankie, and rather nice; he knew a lot about cricket, too, which just showed you.

Another list started up in his head, stopping thoughts of Julian and possible mental illness, stopping his feet from swinging sideways out of bed, onto the floor.
Diamond, ruby, pearl, opal, sapphire, emerald.

In the Aunties’ library was a big old
Readers’ Digest
atlas. When he was younger, Frankie liked to open it out on the floor and study the maps. On one double-page spread were photographs of gems in their uncut and polished states. Frankie had been entranced by the transformation from rock to faceted jewel. And by the names of the gems; they were somehow foreign-sounding, a little mysterious. He had learned them by heart years ago, lying by the Aunties’ open fire on a wet winter afternoon.
Turquoise, beryl, aquamarine, garnet, amethyst, topaz, carnelian . . .
Ma had a carnelian ring that had belonged to her mother. It was heavy, like a man’s jewel. But he didn’t want to think about Ma. Or her dead mother.

And then a wave of pure horror poured through his body, an icy flood that pooled around his heart, squeezed his lungs. He broke out in a fresh sweat. This was the very worst feeling, this wave. It terrified him. It propelled him, usually, straight out of bed, as if he were being pushed forward on tidal waters, down the hall to Ma.

Chalcedony, agate, moonstone, pearl, jade, lapis lazuli, onyx, amber, jasper
. . . That was his favorite,
jasper
. If he ever had a kid, he’d called him Jasper. Gigs was planning to call his sons Prince and Duke. But they would have to be born completely adult, since Gigs couldn’t stand actual children.
Coral, zircon, bloodstone, fire opal, beryl,
no, he’d done that. He’d have to start again, or he’d be back to Ma.

But dogs began instead. Good, there were so many dogs, dogs could last for ages.
Beagle, Saint Bernard, dachshund, Labrador, retriever, collie, setter, spaniel
. . . The Aunties had owned an old black spaniel years ago, Walt. He’d gotten sick and farted incessantly and revoltingly, and they’d had to have him put down. Frankie had wanted a funeral service, so they’d had a procession out to the back garden, with Teen holding Walt, and Frankie in front with a wooden cross. Alma had said some Latin and then they’d buried Walt and marked the spot with the cross . . .
Bulldog, boxer, borzoi, Alsatian, Dalmatian, Great Dane . . .
The horror wave was receding, but only very slowly . . .
Whippet, short-haired pointer, fox terrier, Chihuahua, Pekinese, corgi, poodle . . . bitzer . . .
Microsoft appeared in his head, the intelligent face, the sturdy terrier legs. But then three-legged Microsoft limped bumpily across his thoughts and he abruptly wiped the image . . .
Greyhound, foxhound, bloodhound, wolfhound
. . . He ran out of dogs.

Frankie lifted his head and wished he could howl like a wolfhound. He wished he could leap from his bed and bay and bay at the window and the sliver of moon hanging just above next-door’s roof. He wanted the manic listing to end; he wanted to extinguish the horror waves and the cold fingers around his heart. He wanted the malignly insistent thoughts to be banished forever; he just wanted it all to
stop,
and he wanted so very badly to sleep.

He had to find help. He needed help — he knew it; he really did. He had to talk to someone, and soon, or he wouldn’t be able to go on. Immediately, on thinking this, came a brief wash of relief and — how strange — now a tear welled, warm and pendant, in the corner of his eye. Yes, he had to talk to someone. He couldn’t talk to Ma, for reasons he couldn’t examine just now. He couldn’t talk to Sydney because it was all tied up with her. And it was too complicated and halting somehow with Gordana or Uncle George or Louie. He must find someone else. Tears fell out of both his eyes, but he didn’t care; it felt almost good, though his nose was blocking up and his head pounded, and now that the tears had started, he couldn’t seem to stop them.

He reached down, found his discarded T-shirt on the floor, and blew his nose in it, which was disgusting, but who cared. He wiped his eyes, though tears just came and came. He wiped and blew and wiped, and then, like a rider approaching from a long way off, the thought came slowly through the pounding and the blowing and the tears: Alma.

He lay quite still for a few seconds, Alma’s great form looming in his head, her big fat ankles, her yellow paisley scarf and fur beret, her meaty arms lifted, ready to sweep aside problems. He could talk to any of the Aunties, but he chose Alma. He would go there tomorrow. He would find Alma, and somehow, he didn’t know how, somehow it would be better. Alma would save him.