Chapter Twenty-Eight
We shook things up. Now that Puck was halfway through Kindergarten, the idea of more field trips was intriguing. Even if it meant a 6:30 wake-up call for the one-tooth-less man snuggled under the covers, what did he mind? He was going on another adventure. The dark gray ride and blink of red traffic lights allowed for “Adventures in Odyssey” and discussion about church for the adults.
Uncle Red Strike drove up right next to us in the – as best described – white copper car to walk in with The Bear. They waved us off. And after some creative exploring of alternative routes through Dogtown, we caught up with Rose who still hadn’t left for work yet. She was heading out late to attend a funeral visitation for a co-worker at the Illinois office. She stripped her black pants with duct tape for cat hair while we chatted and Puck followed the cats.
“He always brought chicken salad to work,” Rose said with a sad frown. “Bumblebee chicken salad.”
Puck rummaged for things, as usual, always hungry-scrounging.
“Could I have some visitor candy, Mom?”
“Too early, bud.”
“You can have cereal,” Rose offered.
Puck eagerly examined the boxes in the cabinet. Maddie was hiding on the top of the almost-impossible-to-get-to cupboards near the ceiling. Her dark ears peaked over the top, waiting for it to be safe. After Puck had consumed an apple, raisins, almonds [all his own carried-over stash], including the Cheerios, we got some work done. A potential false encounter with the plumbing [also on Puck’s end] suggested that maybe The Bear should join us for lunch at Rose’s to… amend the problem. I may be deft in some areas, handy in others, but when it comes to plumbing… I don’t take any chances. Plus a game of physics for the boys while I scrubbed a few dishes. The sun was poking out, too.
Then the big deal of the day could start. The Bear was returned to the tall silver shoe of shoes in Clayton. And Puck and I drove off to the Zoo. On this drive, Puck had questions for me, of course…
“What does ‘yes’ mean?”
“It means ‘that’s correct’.”
“What does that mean?”
“It’s means it’s right.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means it’s not wrong.”
“What does that…”
“Ok. So, here… How’s this? Is the sky blue, Puck?”
“Uh…”
“Isn’t the sky blue?”
“Well…”
“It’s blue, bud. The sky is blue.”
“Ohhhh… I thought you asked, ‘Is that guy blue?”
It’s strange in January, this weather. It doesn’t seem right. It felt more like early baseball season, but I didn’t see too many people complaining. Junior high girls in clam diggers [or whatever], moms in shorts, packs of siblings running around from cage to cage. Puck was all ready to tear off down the paths. Strangely, his item of choice that afternoon was – birds. Just the birds. Geese, ducks, herons, a black swan with candy red beak… He found four soft, freshly shed feathers on the pathway. Brown with white flecked spots. He gathered them in one hand, big grin…
“I have so much feathers, Mom.”
Earlier, he decided that watching the chimps behind glass was a little too much to handle…
“Come on, Mom. I can’t stand the beauty of it.”
And the insects. As the clouds cuddled in with the light that was already too shallow for a day this warm, he excitedly examined beetles and cockroaches through glass pockets in the wall. Leaf cutter ants. Blazed right through the glass butterfly dome. I’m not sure he noticed a single delicate creature floating in yellows, whites, and reds past his determined face.
The sun was gold, now. Puck wanted another shot at Turtle Park. We played together for awhile, tossing an empty water bottle up and down the turtle backs, playing “ship”, Puck sliding down the damp backs on his rear end. Three nuns walked through the rocky reptiles. Two were nuns, at least. The third might have been an abbess, maybe. Half an hour running across brown cement turtles left me wanting a little time to sit down and let Puck eat some veg. A paper note sat on the floor of Rose’s apartment just inside the door. Her oven had been repaired…
“Sorry for Any incovinence,” it read.
So I popped up the chain and trigger windows to let in the fresh air. Madeline was still stationed, paralyzed, above the cabinets. Stinkerbelle was rolled up in an angry heap under Rose’s red comforter. And Puck snapped hand-peppers from a tupperware, with slabs of cheddar. That kid can pack it. Checked in with Rose, who was enjoying the pound of chocolate. Stinkerbelle emerged irritably from under the covers as that golden light continued to descend over brick and stone, the plants on the sills, the traffic picked up on the highway. We built towers from mah jong blocks. Rose had left an old brown copy of “Vanity Fair” on the couch, which has been moderately attacked by the cats the past year. We said goodbye to them, now both wedged up above the cabinets, trying to make out if it was safe. Although I did have to commend Puck on his gentility and sense of, incredibly, quiet reserve extended during our stay.
We enjoyed a drive home with The Bear just as dark came on, a scallop of heavy gray cloud over rose sunset. Every day, different. Puck wished he had brought his camera.
Home provided Puck that opportunity. He ran off his dinner apple juice by grabbing the digital rubber green box to snap a picture outdoors from his climbing tree…
“I just have to go out in the wilderness for a second, Mom,” he cautioned me. He returned with a snapshot of the porch light, saying, “Beautiful, huh? The great outdoors.”
Later, he tucked Crackers in beside him. He had transported her feed and water station to his room before bedtime, and a few pages of the Happy Hollisters cowboy mystery…
“Totally go with the flow, cat,” he told her.
The Bear sat down to crank out translations and vocabulary for the first heavy evening of the semester. I joined him on the under-busted red couch.