Chapter 8: Wit and Betrayal

Tuesday, July 24, 1984 1:30 pm

After Pappy drove me home from Tito's— with my shoes and socks in a grocery bag and a couple of old towels between me and the seat— I hosed off my shoes outside, and left them on the back porch to dry. Then I threw my muddy clothes into the washer. As I headed up the stairs to get a shower, leaning on the cane to support my weak ankle, I got kind of a funny feeling. I always knew that my ant colony would be in its place on my desk when I walked in, but that day I could actually feel them. In my hurry to get ready for my orthopedist's appointment that morning I had forgotten to give them their daily drops of water, and they were getting thirsty.

I stopped halfway up the stairs.

How could I know that they were thirsty?

Part of my brain told me that it was simple logic. I had forgotten to add water to the farm. Knowing that, the logical conclusion would be that the ants must be thirsty.

But another part of me ... well, it felt the thirst. And the feeling was coming from my room. I hustled the rest of the way up to my room.

"Sorry about that, guys," I muttered as I quickly filled the eyedropper and put an extra-large squirt into the sand. A new feeling emanated from the farm. The thirst was still there, but there was a tinge of relief along with it ... and thankfulness. As if they knew the water was coming from me.

I got mud in my circuits, I thought to myself. I sat and watched for a moment as one by one the ants trooped over from wherever they were to a chamber under the wet sand and did whatever it was ants do to drink. When each ant was sated, it went right back to whatever ant business it had been doing. Satisfied that they had enough water and food for another day or two, I headed to the bathroom for a much needed shower. The mud from that puddle— it may not have literally gotten into my circuits, but it definitely had gotten into some uncomfortable places. Now, over an hour later, it was starting to dry, making those places even more uncomfortable.

Clean, dry, and dressed again, I headed over to the Morrisons' to see if they had any chores and maybe glean some more information about Charlotte's return. Mr. Morrison's apparent health had improved since I started helping them around the house again. Mrs. M, on the other hand, looked ... shrunken. She had big bags under her eyes, and her skin was starting to hang loose from her arms where she was losing muscle mass. It was similar to what had happened to my leg under the cast, but being confined to the wheelchair was causing her muscle atrophy to happen all over.

They didn't have much for me to do that day. I picked some ripe bell peppers and tomatoes from their modest garden and pulled some weeds in the flower beds, then Mr. M asked me to help with some cleaning in the garage. The old chest freezer was even noisier than it had been back at the beginning of June. Mr. M noticed me looking at it— staring, really— and told me he didn't think it would survive the year. "I would be extra thankful," he said with a wink, "If it lasts through November." We both chuckled at his holiday pun, then got to work.

We spent a few minutes putting away tools, then Mr. M asked me to pull some storage crates out from under the bench and sweep out the sawdust and cobwebs. I pulled out the crates and Mr. M started knocking off dust and cobwebs with a whisk broom. I started to reach under the bench with the broom, and a movement in the shadows caught my eye. When I realized what it was, I stopped cold.

Ants!

A half dozen black carpenter ants, just like the ones I had captured for my ant farm, were milling around in the corner by the bench's leg. I cast a quick glance behind me. Mr. M was still whisking dust off the crates and hadn't noticed anything— yet. I turned my attention back to the ants, wondering if I should tell Mr. M about them or not. If I didn't tell him, they could damage his home. If I told him, he would want to kill them. Ordinarily, that would be the easy choice to make. But Mr. M might ask me to help with the extermination— and these ants were likely related to the ones in my room, the ones which were a constant source of peace and calm over the last two stressful months.

"You guys shouldn't be here," I mumbled under my breath. "It's not safe for you here." One ant broke from the group, turning toward me and coming out a few tiny ant steps into the light. It looked up at me, twitching its antennae in— defiance?

Home.

It was just like the voice from the ant farm! I recoiled backwards, and hit my head on the underside of the bench.

"You okay there, Champ?" Mr. M asked, concerned.

"I'm fine," I replied, rubbing the back of my head. "I, uh, got some dust in my nose and started to sneeze." I looked back under the bench, but the ants were gone from the corner. I knelt back down to finish sweeping, taking great care to watch for any more ants in the process, but they stayed wherever they had gone to. It seemed that they now considered the Morrisons' garage to be their home.

We placed the storage crates back under the bench and called it a day. I asked Mr. M if I could visit with Mrs. M for a while but he demurred. "We both got pretty dirty, champ. Best if you just head back home and clean up." I wouldn't be getting any information about Charlotte that day.

I did as Mr. M suggested, taking another quick shower at home. Afterward, I sat at my desk and wondered what was happening with me, the ants, and the voices in my head. I really should have been worried. Do crazy people know they're crazy? I didn't care. As long as I could be near my ants, being crazy wouldn't bother me.

That night I had trouble sleeping. Every time I closed my eyes I saw Charlotte's smiling face and my heart raced. She would be home in just a few short days! Around midnight I gave up on trying to sleep and wandered downstairs for a snack and some late-night television.

I made myself a peanut-butter-and-banana-sandwich and poured a glass of milk, then headed into the living room. I sat my milk on top of the television set and flipped through the channels with one hand while eating my sandwich with the other. Nothing looked worth watching and I was about to give up when something caught my attention.

It was an old black-and-white movie called Cyrano de Bergerac. I had heard about the story before: Cyrano had an outrageously large nose, and had a crush on a girl named Roxanne. Roxanne, in turn, had a crush on Christian, who was young and good looking but not all that smart. Cyrano thought that Roxanne wouldn't find him attractive because of his nose. So, being a good guy, Cyrano helped Christian woo Roxanne from below her balcony by hiding in the bushes and telling Christian what to say. All that would come later in the movie. What caught my attention that night was early in the story when someone tried to insult Cyrano. The guy— I think he was a Count— walked up to him and arrogantly stated, "Your nose is rather large."

That was even more lame than Miller calling me Grasshopper, I thought.

But then the most amazing thing happened. Cyrano explained at length how the Count should have insulted him. I was amazed. In the space of just a few minutes, and seemingly on the spur of the moment, he came up with more than a dozen ways to make fun of his own oversized nose! This guy is my hero, I chuckled to myself.

I stood in front of the TV entranced, munching on my midnight snack as the wit continued. The Count challenged the Cyrano to a swordfight! While they fenced, Cyrano made up a poem about the fight as it happened! It reminded me a lot of how Eddie made up different lyrics to songs as they played on the radio. I resolved to ask Eddie how he did it. Meanwhile, the action in the movie moved on to the romantic part and I lost interest. I took my empty glass back to the kitchen, made sure I hadn't left a mess, and headed back upstairs. I was asleep almost before my head hit the pillow.

The next morning I phoned Eddie right after breakfast. His mother answered and called him to the phone. As he approached the phone from across the room, I heard him start singing:

"You know, Eddie," I laughed, "Normally I would be offended, but that's actually why I called today." I told him about watching Cyrano de Bergerac the night before, and how it reminded me of my run-in with Miller, except that my wit had been lacking. I asked him if there was a trick to coming up with witty remarks on the spot.

For several long moments, Eddie was uncharacteristically silent. Finally he asked, "Mind if I come over?"

A short while later, we sat in my room. Eddie sat on the corner of my bed and I sat at my desk.

"I'm going to tell you something," he intoned, "but it has to stay just between you and me. You can't tell anyone else, not even Brett or Charlie or David."

That statement took me by surprise. For years, were had sort of an unwritten rule about secrets within the Alphabet Soup Gang: There were none!

Eddie noticed my unease and said, "It's nothing bad. Call it a trade secret. I don't want everyone knowing this ... Like how a magician doesn't give up how his tricks work."

I could understand that. Eddie's quick wit and song parodies were something that made him unique. I told him that if it was really important to him, I would rather let him keep it secret.