Nekomah Creek (17 page)

“Great news!” Mom said when she burst in after work Friday night. She picked me up and swung me around. She hugged the babies. Then she threw herself at Dad.

“Galaxy Greetings accepted the card ideas I sent them!”

“They did? Beth, that’s terrific! That’s the big company in Ohio, right?”

“Uh huh, and listen to this.” She tossed her jacket on the sofa. “They want me to develop an entire line for them!”

“Well, hey!” Dad said. “This calls for a celebration.”

“You better believe it. We might be talking about a lot of money.”

“Sorry I don’t have any champagne on hand.
Will this do?” He started pouring apple juice into wineglasses for everybody. We clinked them, even the babies, and Dad said, “To Mommy!”

“To Mommy!” I said.

“To Mommy, to Mommy,” Freddie and Lucy echoed.

Then Dad served up the pot roast.

“Do you all realize what this means?” Mom said. “I can stay home more, work in my studio. I’ve talked it over with Lynn. It’s okay with her if I only come into the shop two or three days a week.”

“I thought you wanted to work full time,” Dad said.

“So did I, but it’s been driving me crazy. I’m tired and I’m cranky and besides, I miss you guys.” She looked at Dad. “I didn’t go to all that trouble to have these kids just to miss out on all the fun stuff.”

Now everybody was in a good mood.

When Mom was all talked out about the greeting card business, Dad started telling about the stuff he’d bought for his gourmet dinner next week. His plan was to get everything ahead except for the things he had to buy fresh.

“I’m not worried about the food,” Mom said. “But what about the house? I think we need a week just to clean it up.”

I glanced around. Disaster City. Even by our standards, this was a real low. Toys, food crumbs,
you name it—it was all over the floor. A lot of the stuff looked like it’d been in the garbage at least once already before somebody—two little somebodies, I should say—flung it out. One of my socks trailed down in front of the TV screen.

“It’s on my list.” Dad headed for the sink with his plate. “Tomorrow morning, major shovel-out.”

“Whatever you say,” Mom said, like she’d believe it when she saw it and not before. Then she went over and started cleaning up the kitchen.

Dad blew the animal crackers off the record player and put on Raffi. Then he kicked back the braided rug and some of the toys, passed out the kazoos and we started dancing around. Freddie blew shrieks from an old bicycle horn that had lost its rubber squeezer. When we got to our favorite number, “Let’s Make Some Noise,” we ripped into the pots and pans cupboard and started banging away, letting that calypso beat blast the whole house.

Dad led a screaming conga line past the kitchen sink, picked up a dish towel, and snapped Mom’s rear.

Now this is the sort of thing your mom might actually kind of like if your dad does it, but don’t try it yourself. I did once and got a that’ll-be-the-last-time-for-that look.

What my dad gets from her is pretend mad with a twinkle in her eye.

“Forget the dishes!” he said now. “We’re celebrating!”
He stuck the kazoo back in his mouth and grabbed her.

Then he broke away and put on the “William Tell Overture.” In his stocking feet, he started running across the room and sliding on the wood floor. We’d chase after him, trying to get the hang of it.

He’d get a long slide going, then pretend to crash into the wall, arms and legs flying.
“Kerblam!”

Mom was laughing, but she kept saying, “Be careful!” and shutting her eyes like she couldn’t stand to look.

The babies thought Dad’s stunts were great. By the time the music got to the thunderstorm part, we were all totally whipped up.

Then I slipped and hit the wall.

“Will you
please
take it easy?” Mom said. “I’d hate to be trying to explain this at the emergency room. ‘Gee, officer, we were just teaching the kids how to slam into walls …’ ” She shook her head. “We’d get hauled in for child abuse so fast …”

Get hauled in … I stood up, shaky from more than the crash.

“Your mom’s right,” Dad said, winded. “We better calm down.” He started peeling out of his flannel shirt. “I’m hot!”

“Hot!” Freddie said.

“Hot!” Lucy peeled out of her shirt. Her hair stood up in tufts.

Freddie’s shirt got stuck on his head. He looked like Lawrence of Arabia.

Mom made a face at Dad’s T-shirt. “That should have been in the rag bag six months ago.”

Dad always wears his T-shirts until they have these big holes in them. This one was definitely a prime candidate for my favorite game.

“Mom?” I said with a hopeful look, glad to forget about police officers and school counselors.

Mom pretended to give this serious thought, then she said our special signal words. “Sure could use some new dust rags around here.”

“Yippee!”

Right then the Lone Ranger part of the music started. Dad took off. I followed.

“Now watch this,” I shouted to the babies over the music. “You gotta learn how we do this!”

Dad vaulted over the sofa and I scrambled after him. He was still making noises on the kazoo, trying not to laugh, his eyes wide, his red cheeks puffed out like a picture of the North Wind.

He started up the stairs but I hooked my hand through a big hole in the back of his shirt and yanked.

Lucy and Freddie shrieked.

Dad pretended to fall back down the stairs so the babies could jump on him, too.

“That’s right,” I said, encouraging them. “Just rip! It’s okay!”

In about six seconds that T-shirt was nothing
but a neckband and sleeves with some ropey loops hanging from it.

Dad played beat for a minute while Freddie jumped up and down on his bare back. “Oof! Oof! Oof!” Then he rolled and escaped.

Laughing and shrieking, we took off after him. I was standing on the arm of the sofa, ready to leap off, when Mom yelled, “Quiet!”

The doorbell was ringing.

Dad looked at her. “Who in the heck …?”

It’s not like people just show up on your porch a lot out here in the woods.

Two bounces and I was down, heading for the door.

“Robby, no! Wait just a—”

Too late. I’d already flung it open. Standing on our front porch was Mrs. Van Gent and her husband, in spy-type trench coats!

“Well, hello there, Robby, I—” She stopped and stared at my shredded father.

The needle screeched across the record as Mom killed the Lone Ranger.

“Something tells me,” Mrs. Van Gent said faintly, “there’s been a little mix-up about our dinner.”

Mortified. I’d heard that word. Now I didn’t just know its meaning. I
felt
it. Dad’s red face got three shades redder. For a moment I thought he might do what I felt like doing, which was run upstairs and pull a blanket over my head.

But he hardly missed a beat. He smiled at Mrs. Van Gent, caught his breath, and turned to me.

“Robby,” he said. “Where are your manners? Find the lady a kazoo!”

  15  

“Now you’ve done it!” I yelled at Dad as soon as Mrs. Van Gent and her husband had scurried back to their car.

But Mom and Dad weren’t paying any attention to me.

“I don’t believe it.” Mom sank onto the sofa. “I don’t believe that just happened.”

Dad had this dumb grin on his face.

Freddie of Arabia stood at the window yelling, “Good-bye, Yady. Good-bye, Yady …”

“I have
never
,” Mom said, “in my whole life, been so embarrassed!”

But then she started laughing, excited-embarrassed more than mortified-embarrassed. She jumped up, shocked into action I guess, and
started straightening the room. Which was totally dumb. It was way too late now.

Dad shook his head. “The look on that woman’s face …”

“It’s not funny!” I said.

“It’s not?” Dad pulled off the tattered T-shirt. “Then how come we’re laughing?”

“Because you don’t understand. You guys don’t know how serious this is. You have totally blown it, Dad!”

“Me?
Hey sport, you helped with the shirt.”

“I know, but you’re the one that always gets things whipped up. I’m just a kid. I can’t help it. You’re the dad. You’re supposed to be in charge!”

“Well, I am. I passed out the kazoos, didn’t I?”

“Da-ad! Just think how this looked to her!”

“Hmmm.” Dad rubbed his chin, squinting at me but talking to Mom. “Guess we’re into that sensitive stage where any little thing we do will embarrass him.”

I sucked in a deep breath and flung my arm to take in the whole pitiful scene. “You call this any little thing?”

“Hey, okay.” Dad put his flannel shirt back on. “Take it easy. I’m sorry, all right?”

Lucy ran up to him with her fish puppet and started nipping at his leg. “Fishy fishy fishy!”

Mom crossed her arms over her chest and looked around the room. “We really can’t blame him for being embarrassed.”

“Guess not,” Dad said. He snatched Lucy up, tossed her on the sofa, and gave her bare tummy a good tickle. She giggled and shrieked until he let her wriggle away. “But nobody ever died of embarrassment, Robby. In a week or two you’ll have forgotten all about it.”