“What’s —”
“Carelessness, Aspen Elspeth!” says PopCorn, trying to be funny and not quite pulling it off.
Grumps turns on him. “Your mother Elspeth?”
“Aspen Elspeth Aspen Elspeth Aspen Elspeth,” says Aspen like a fast and spitty tongue twister. “Catalpa has our aunty Ajesh for her middle, and Wood has Michael from a dead friend of PapaDum’s, and Sic has Tecumseh, who captured Detroit.”
“I’m Portia from a Shakespeare play and also the prime minister of Jamaica,” Sumac adds, “and Brian has Bree and Oak has Owen, because those were the names their birth mom gave them.”
Grumps ignores all that and scowls at Aspen. “This child never even met Elspeth.”
“That’s right, Dad, and that’s sad,” says PopCorn.
The silence lengthens. You’d think the old man would be glad that somebody remembers his wife enough to pass on her name thirty years later, thinks Sumac. But no, Grumps behaves as if it’s one more thing stolen from him. When he’s the robber, actually. The Lotterys were in a jar, like treasure in ancient Mesopotamia, and he’s barged his way in and cracked the seal off.
Sumac steps over the shards of glass and marches all the way up to her new room. (Her cell of exile, more like.) In big capitals she starts a list of what kind of home would suit her grandfather.
NOBODY WITH TATTOOS
NO WHOLE GRAINS OR “FOREIGN VEGETABLES”
NO NOSEY PARKERS
NO GRUBBING ABOUT IN GARBAGE
NO HAVING TO TAKE PILLS
NO BEING NAGGED OR BOSSED AROUND
NO CRIPPLED ANIMALS
NOBODY UNDER 18
Is it all a bit negative? Well, that’s because Grumps is.
Sumac tries to think of positive things that would make one of those homes homier to him than Camelottery is. Does disliking children mean Grumps is fond of old people, or not necessarily? Most things she knows he likes — cups of tea, shortbread, easy crosswords, classical music — he can get here. What can’t he? Peace and quiet, she adds to her list.
WILDFLOWERS OF YUKON
WHITE BREAD
WHITE PASTA
ALL WHITE PEOPLE
Sumac can’t quite imagine anywhere that’s like that nowadays. Maybe what Grumps needs is a time machine — only then he wouldn’t ask to go to an old folks’ home, would he? He’d aim straight for his real home in Faro, but thirty years back, when Elspeth was alive. No, actually, more like forty or fifty years, so he could have enough time with her before she’d die again.
Now Sumac’s feeling sorry for him. Grrr. She has to stay focused. It’s like her grandfather’s a miserable beluga, and Sumac needs to find him a new pod to join. Or no, she’s still his guide dog, but her job is to guide him in a direction that’s truly best for him by giving him little nudges.
She starts looking up websites. It’s even harder than ancient Sumerian, trying to figure out the differences between independent living and adult living and assisted living. She has to admit, one good thing about having a bedroom in the attic is privacy: Nobody wanders in and interrupts her here.
Until MaxiMum knocks on the door to say that’s enough screen time, and by the way, Aspen got bored waiting for Sumac to come back and finish their model, so she tinkered with history by destroying Toronto with a massive meteor strike.
*
Why do the Lotterys never seem to get around to going to the playground till it’s the hottest part of the afternoon, Sumac wonders?
In the Hall of Mirrors, they pass Sic loading up his tool belt with compound, spring clips, and pliers.
“Got putty knives?” PapaDum asks.
“Flexible and stiff,” says Sic, whipping them out ninja-style. Today’s home-printed T-shirt says Back to Front.
Sumac peeks behind him to see what the back says. In upside-down letters, This Way Up. “What’s your project?”
“Glazing Mrs. Zhao’s window that me and Wood cracked this morning playing one-armed basketball,” he tells her.
She winces sympathetically.
“Don’t just carry those safety goggles,” says PapaDum, “wear them.”
“You have taught me well, Obi-Wan Kenobi.” Sic bows deeply. “Now I set forth on my perilous journey to the land of Zhao….”
The playground’s only five minutes away, but Sumac feels more than half melted already.
PopCorn starts rigging up his latest great idea — a slackline between two trees, knee-high, so if you fall, it won’t hurt too much. He pads the loops with Bubble Wrap to avoid damaging the bark.
“Keep it horizontal while I ratchet it tighter,” calls CardaMom.
“It is horizontal,” insists PopCorn. “It just looks slanty to you because you’re bent over.”
She broods over the diagram in the booklet and lets out a grunt of frustration.
PopCorn straightens up and twangs the tight nylon ribbon between the two trees. “Ready as it’ll ever be.”