Spoonbenders

Another stretch of minutes crawled past. His eyes had adjusted to the gloom, but he still couldn’t make out the face of his watch. He listened to the house, and was relieved that the upstairs bedrooms were quiet.

He sat up, the back of his shirt a damp rag despite the sheet that Buddy had thrown over the leather cushions.

“Are you ready?” he whispered to himself. “It’s time, Frankie. Time to—”

He almost said, “Embrace life.” But he was done with the UltraLife. If he tasted another goji berry anything he’d heave his guts up.

Using guesswork and clues from dim shapes, he foraged for pants, socks, shoes. His pants pocket held the all-important piece of paper. The empty tool bag was in his hand. There were only two more things he needed before he left the house.

He went down the stairs, and nearly tripped over the huge industrial drill Buddy had left on the floor—even though Frankie had been looking out for it. His brother had been using it to screw a digital clock to the wall beside the basement door. Why? Who the hell knows. You’d get more answers from a chimp. But at least the red letters told him the exact time: 11:25. Jesus. He hadn’t even made it to 11:30.

He pushed on the metal door. It scraped open with a sound that he wouldn’t have noticed in daylight, but whose Night Volume went up to eleven. The room inside was lit only by the glow of Super Nintendo indicator lights. Somehow that made it darker.

“Matty?” he whispered. He stepped into the room. The new bunk beds were stacked against the far wall, but which one was his nephew’s? “Hey. Matty.” His foot caught on an invisible power cord, but he righted himself.

“He’s over there,” a tiny voice whispered.

“Thanks,” Frankie answered. Wow, was it cool down here. Had Buddy installed AC? Why the fuck was he sweltering upstairs?

“Hello?” a familiar voice called.

Frankie swung toward it. “Marco.”

“Polo,” Matty said.

Everybody was still whispering. The boy seemed to be on the lower bunk. Frankie bent low and crept forward, his hand hovering before him in the dark to stop him from cracking his skull against the wood.

“I need you on overwatch,” Frankie said.

“What?”

“You know. Watching over me. Up there.”

“You’re still going to do it?”

“Yes, I’m going to do it. Of course I am. Are we not Telemachuses? Telemachi?”

“Yeah, but—”

“I need you, Matty. You’re my—” He tried to think of a great sidekick from Greek myth, but Castor and Pollux were the only dynamic duo he could think of, and Frankie really didn’t want to think about his daughters right now. “You’re my lookout.”

The room lights flashed on. Frankie stood up, and whacked the back of his head on the bunk frame. He fell back, and nearly dropped onto his ass.

“What the hell are you doing?” Irene stood by the door, in shorts and a T-shirt, her hand on the light switch. The oldest of Graciella’s sons sat up in his upper bunk, and the youngest one, who’d spoken to Frankie in the dark, automatically covered his head with the blanket.

“I’m trying,” Frankie said, mustering his dignity, “to have a conversation.”

“This is not the time,” Irene said.

“I just wanted to—”

“Out.”

“All right, all right,” Frankie said. He tried to shoot a significant look at Matty, but the boy’s eyes were on his mom. “I’m going. You don’t have to look out for me.”

Irene caught up to him as he was heading out the front door. “What’s the matter with you? Where are you going? And what’s in the bag?”

“Nothing. It’s hot, Irene. I can’t sleep.”

“I want to talk about Matty. Give me two fucking seconds.”

“I’ve really got to go.”

“Where?” she said, exasperated. “Outside?”

He groaned.

“I can’t have you talking to Matty right now,” she said. “Not until I figure out what’s going on.” The porch light was on, and her face was half in shadow. She looked both older and younger at the same time.

“Come on,” Frankie said. “You know what’s going on.”

“No, I don’t. But when I get to talk to Matty, when we don’t have fifty people in the house—”

“Are you really going to take him away from us?”

Irene blinked at him.

“To Phoenix?” he asked.

“No,” she said. “Probably not. But I can’t stay here. Not with all…this.”

“See, this is why Matty couldn’t talk to you. You hate everything about our family.”

“That’s crazy. I don’t hate everything.”

“Just the important parts. Listen—Matty wanted somebody to talk to who wouldn’t make him feel ashamed, okay? This is something to be proud of. He’s really good at remote viewing, maybe even better than Mom someday. But it’s scary, and when it happened to him, he came to me, because he knew that I’d think it was great.”

“And I’m glad he did.”

“What?”

“I’m glad he talked to you. He needed somebody, and if it couldn’t be me, I’m glad it was somebody in the family.”

“Okay…” Frankie couldn’t think of what to say.

“But that’s over,” Irene said. “No more filling his head with the glories of extrasensory perception until I get the whole story—from him.”

“Right. The whole story.”

Irene’s eyes narrowed.