“They got burned off in the fire,” Sumac whispers in her ear, because it’s a family rule that there are no stupid questions.
PopCorn sniffs at Aspen. “Is that nail polish remover I smell?”
She nods. “We superglued our index fingers to our thumbs as an experiment.”
“An experiment in what, frustration?”
“To figure out how much humans rely on opposable thumbs,” said MaxiMum, coming into the hall. “Hello, Iain.”
“Welcome, welcome,” cries CardaMom, hurrying downstairs wearing Oak on her shoulders. “PapaDum,” she calls toward the Mess, “stop chopping onions, they’re here.”
The grandfather looks from one face to the next, and suddenly Sumac is glad the three eldest kids are still away at camp, because compared with Faro, Yukon, the Lotterys are looking like a crowd already.
“Could you do with a rest, Iain?” asks CardaMom, bouncing on the spot to keep Oak happy.
The visitor doesn’t say anything, just clears his throat in a wet, rattly way.
“A drink?”
“Hi, Iain.” Here comes PapaDum, drying his hands on a cloth. There’s a pause, and then he asks, “Who’s hungry?”
“Slate is,” says Aspen, pulling her rat out of her hoodie pocket.
The old man squints. “Is that what it looks like?”
“Meet Slate Frisby. Technically he’s an odd-eyed hooded American blue dumbo satin.” Aspen balances him on her palm and kisses his nose. “Frisby for Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH, and Slate because he’s gray except for his white tummy, see?”
The grandfather recoils from the tiny paws.
“Put him away,” says MaxiMum.
Aspen stuffs Slate in her pocket. “Och, noo, I nearly forgot, I’ve got tricks to show ye,” she says in what Sumac realizes is a really bad imitation of the grandfather’s Scottish accent. Aspen clutches one hand in the other and clambers through the loop, but too fast, so she topples over and smacks her face on the banisters.
Typical, thinks Sumac, gritting her teeth.
A few minutes later, when Aspen’s got a bag of frozen peas pressed to her cheek, they all go into the Mess.
Brian’s helping PapaDum make guacamole and spattering it all over herself as she brings the masher down: “Mush, mash, smush …”
“Dinner in ten,” says PapaDum.
“I’m leading the tour,” Aspen insists, in her own accent again. She scurries ahead. “Look, this is our Gym-Jo, it’s a gym and a dojo for aikido all in one,” she tells the grandfather. “Sumac sleeps in here” — flinging the door open and not bothering to shut it — “and this is the Mud Room” — a havoc of rubber boots, scooters, Rollerblades, Hula-Hoops, and skipping ropes — “and the Can-Do for if you need to pee, do you need to pee by any chance?”
MaxiMum looks at her without saying anything, which shuts Aspen up.
“These baby gates are tricky,” says CardaMom, edging ahead of the visitor, “you have to press this bit down while you pull the whole thing up. Oh, and mind the treadmill desk,” she says as they reach the second floor, dipping her knees so Oak’s face doesn’t hit the feather mobile. “It takes up half the landing, but it’s so good for hearts and lungs.”
Sumac studies the grandfather’s long denim legs from behind. Surely if he tried running on their treadmill, they’d snap like dead branches?
“Another bathroom here, Iain,” says MaxiMum, tapping the door marked The Roman Bath in carved-looking lettering. They can hear PopCorn having a cold shower, but not singing Broadway songs the way he usually does. “This next one’s our Theater, and this turquoise room is Brian and Oak’s — our little ones.”
Aspen’s shaking her bag of peas like a maraca now.
“Then we sleep just in here” — CardaMom does that wave of a finger between her and MaxiMum that means the moms are the we — “and PopCorn and PapaDum in that room over there.”
“Who?” The word comes out of the old man suddenly, like the hoot of an owl.
“PopCorn, your son, remember?” says Sumac very clearly. She wonders if the grandfather’s confused again. Maybe there was some smoke in his head that the doctor couldn’t see?
“My son’s Reginald,” the grandfather corrects her.
“Sorry, silly parent nicknames,” CardaMom says in a rush, “but they’ve stuck.”
Reginald sounds a lot sillier than PopCorn, in Sumac’s opinion.
“Mm, we’d had way too much tequila the night we picked them,” says MaxiMum.
The old man’s lizard eyes flick over the Lotterys as he pulls his cigarettes out of his shirt pocket.
“Ah, yeah,” says CardaMom. Which is her way of saying no. She fiddles with her long gray-black braid, retying the end.
“No smoky,” chants Brian.
“Not in the house, but in the yard is fine,” says MaxiMum. “I have one a day myself.”
Sumac will never understand why someone as good at self-control as MaxiMum can’t give up that horrible habit completely.
The old man puts his cigarettes back in his pocket. Then, in CardaMom’s direction: “Any chance of a cup of tea?”