Chapter Thirty-One
Four AM.
The Bear didn’t see feathers until that time. Fortunately he got the job done, whatever it was. Dark pages of endless green, white, and purple code that I used to know a fragment about, but forgot these seven years later. Somewhere around the time I was aware of his eventual snores, I was drinking blue ink and spitting it out again in the ever-ridiculous corners of my dreams. Nasty taste. So we let The Bear sleep in till after eight, and tried to keep it quiet. I turned on a six-minute episode of Bored Shorts Kid History for Puck and myself, which got him giggling…
“Let’s do another Kid Snap!”
Pretty much my whole family can laugh a day of donuts off with Bored Shorts. Or Balloonshop, from olden days. Puck has come to find these things equally hysterical, I might add. We sent The Bear off before nine. This meant that Puck and I could start his next reading list after a lazy pace. He reads a line, I translate into a story off the cuff, which ends up being a weeks-long tale of…
…a mink and his sister dig up a treasure chest out of the ocean, with contains only a small ice rink, which they open up for the ants on the beach of a deserted island, and make them hot soft pretzels and grapefruit juice, while a storm bundles up and spits across the ocean, and a pirate paints pictures of stars standing on a ladder in the sand waiting for his ship to come in…
I hunted out some new frames for The Bear at Warby Parker. Not even a year and his last pair was already falling apart. Sometimes I feel like The Bear is really the Iron Giant or something. Skin of titanium, veins of steel, blood of diamond, or something like that… Anyway, I’m not a good one for examining eyewear, especially online frames advertised in arrangements of red notebooks, passports, white and blue plaid playing cards, pocket change, old-fashioned alarm clocks, and… pinecones… Of course while I was trying to fashion research – right – Puck was de-arranging the living room one floorboard panel and shelf at a time with his sopping wet [or “soaping wet” as he put it] cleaning rags. But there was a fat stack of library books to get through, too, so Puck chowed down the raisins while we caught up on Goldilocks and the three dinosaurs and chocolate pudding, duck magic mathematics shows, and other crazy things they write about in kids books these days. Then he popped the top [with help] of a Crackers-acceptable can of meat gravy goodness for the eager fuzzball. Our Little House experience of the lunch hour proved Puck’s compassion for even the blonde sausage-curled girl in frilly lace frocks…
“She’s starting to like Nellie. Isn’t she, Mom?”
“Well…”
“I like Nellie, Mom.”
A few snowflakes flicked in under salt and pepper skies as Puck adjourned to that quiet hour that I find necessary for our days at home. It was Mom’s idea, way back when the first four children were not quite all six and under, and peace was profoundly required. I could hear Puck acting out stories to himself in the bathroom sink with half a box of Legos and a new tin foil boat.
“Make it snappy.”
“Ok, but…”
“Get going!”
“Alright.”
Then he found me reading in my room – yes, again; what is wrong with me – and brought over a trove of blankets to join me for a cuddle while I read to him of a missionary in Africa.
“Could I do school back here, Mom?”
“Maybe if you find a lapboard. I’m not so sure…”
“But, Mom, I am so determined to do my school on your bed. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
We kind of forgot about that idea because Crackers was sleeping – temptingly – on her cat condo in the kitchen.”
“I want to paint my cat red, Mom.”
The wind was blowing again now. Tasha knocked on our cold door a little while later. Her mom had passed in the night next door – I had never even heard the vehicles – two days before what would have been her 78th wedding anniversary.
“I thought she was holding out for that,” said Tasha. “But she had to go. She’s up there with my dad now having a party.”
Snow through orange setting sun on dark east skies. I talked with Tasha over the phone about her email issues, hacked computer problems. Puck commandeered the empty double-package raisin box which I had set beside the trash can. Endless pack rat.
“I would like to use this for my hamper, Mom. Do you think you can… shall we say… take off these cardboard handles?”
I made the minor mistake of allowing him to watch the 1993 version of “Heidi” for our dinner of pulled chicken fajitas. The first half of three hours anyway. The Bear had picked it out for him at the library, and it seemed like a good idea. But when he started bawling half an hour in, I wasn’t so sure. Of course I got to cuddle him on the couch for awhile – who can complain – and deliver a Romans 8:28 pep talk. He recovered. There might have been a few more slips of tears here and there, which didn’t make him happy. But as he donned the jams towards seven, he concluded…
“I cry too much.”
“You don’t. There’s nothing wrong with tears. I’m glad you have a compassionate heart.”
And I am. Of course he wasn’t blue enough to not vacuum up almost the entire bowl of honey dew melon on the table before I could halt him. I chatted with Joe on IM – the preferred mode of communication most nights. The Bear skipped Guys’ Night. I couldn’t blame him. Four shaky hours of sleep. Another crazy day of work, lunch with a developer, catch-up on studies… He needed a few more hours at home to recharge. I tied up loose ends. Made a note about replacing the air filter in the basement. Life is lists. But good lists. The Bear burst frozen through the door with eggs, yogurt, bananas, a baby bottle of Martinelli’s apple juice and ink pens for me, and chocolate malt balls. Yum. [Said in Kids Snippets face and voice, of course.] And Crackers watched grumpily from her perch above the cabinets, surveying a colorful domain she claimed as her own while The Bear read dumb jokes to me before pulling out the textbooks. Whatever it takes, man. Whatever it takes.