May, 2010
The Careful Application Of Terror Is Also A Form Of Communication
"Have you seen my gray loafer?"
"You mean… the one you're holding in your hand?"
Ducky looked exasperated. "No—the mate to this one."
"Try the closet?"
"Oh, you're a lark. Yes, I tried the closet. That's where I found this one. I cannot find the mate—or the shoe tree for it, for that matter."
I didn't ask if he had put them away together. He's a neatnick. I have a better chance of seeing the sunrise in the west. "Well, it has to be here somewhere." I dropped to my knees and started crawling around, peering under the dresser, the bed— "For the love of Mike…"
"What?"
"Your loafer. The shoe tree. Allie's purple juice cup that's been missing for a month—"
I could hear him shudder. "Right into the bin is my vote."
"I second that. My phone charger! Dang it, I just bought a replacement!"
Ducky squatted down next to me as I continued to drag all sorts of things—dog toys, baby toys, a pair of black lace underwear, a medical journal (half of it, anyway), a desiccated grilled cheese sandwich half—from beneath the bed. "I haven't noticed any of the dogs playing fetch on their own…"
"And Foot would never do this. He'd make one of the dogs do it for him."
"I know it's not me, I'm sure it's not you, I'm equally sure it's not Suzy—"
"And Mother may do things that baffle us all, but she can't walk up the stairs without help any more."
"Which leaves… Alexandra?" Ducky said doubtfully.
"When she's not in her crib, she's with someone. Okay, I can see her tossing a toy or two under the bed while I'm folding laundry or something—but I'd notice if she had gone into your closet and nipped off with half a pair of shoes."
"I have to admit," he said slowly, "I've noticed the closet is a little… mussed, of late. Having listened to other parents, I figured this was just part and parcel of parenthood. But…"
"Okay—it's not just me. I didn't say anything because I figured you were just adopting my slightly slobbish ways after all this time." We looked at each other uncertainly. "Allie?"
"Alexandra?"
We both looked toward our bedroom door; beyond that doorway lay her bedroom, where she was taking an afternoon nap (as was her grandmother, downstairs).
"Perhaps she's getting out of her crib…?"
"I wouldn't put it past her," I said. "Except that when I come back upstairs, she's always in her crib. Unless you installed a transporter and didn't mention it—"
"It's on backorder, sorry," he shot back.
"Poltergeist?" I suggested.
He tiptoed over to Allie's room and carefully opened the door. Nap, hell. She was sitting up in her crib, holding a 'conversation' with her favorite soft doll we'd found on a trip through Pennsylvania last Christmas. She gave a happy gurgle when she spied us and scrambled to her feet, bouncing up and down on her mattress. "Well, that clears you."
"Da!" She held up her arms. "Awee oop!" She broke into peals of laughter.
"Allie-oop," he laughed. Ray had tagged her with that nickname early on. "Oof! You are getting big, young lady!"
She was only half out of the crib when she launched herself at him, flinging her arms around his neck. "My Da!"
He hugged her. "Yes, it's Da, here to rescue you from baby jail. So." He looked at her sternly. "Are you Oliver Twist or are you Fagin?"
"Ducky!"
Allie just laughed at Ducky's stern voice. "Where gran'ma?"
"Grandma is downstairs. You ready to go for a walk with grandma?"
She nodded and bounced up and down in his arms. She wriggled around until he let her down then waddled over to her closet. "Choos!"
"Yes, shoes," I agreed.
She looked disgusted. "Choos!"
I realized she was holding out a sneaker and a sandal. Not shoes—choose. "Oh. The pink sneaks, definitely."
Ducky squatted down to help her put on the spangled sneakers. "Someone needs changing before she leaves," he murmured.
"That's a given."
As we made our way downstairs (Allie could do an on-all-fours walk upstairs in nothing flat; downstairs was harder), the topic of the black hole under the bed came back up. "There's only one logical suspect."
"True," I was forced to admit. "But, again—how?"
"Perhaps some undercover surveillance…"
Two days later he brought home an armful of electronics from work. "What's all this?"
"Transmitter. A nanny-cam, essentially, but we don't have to hide it since we aren't spying on someone old enough to notice. We can watch it real-time, on a monitor, or tape it for later viewing."
The first day: nothing. Second day: nothing. Third day: nothing.
Well—not nothing, technically. I discovered Ducky didn't resort to one of the dozens (and dozens) of books on the shelf; his pre-nap stories were "once, when I was in Peru" or "when your grandmother was a little girl." It was adorable.
"Weed me a stowee?"
"Yeppers." It was weird seeing myself on video; the voice didn't sound like my voice. Not what I think my voice sounds like, anyway. 'We' read an old favorite of mine, The Last Little Cat. I wasn't surprised to hear Ducky sniffling next to me while we watched the tape—I was wiping my eyes on the screen. We fast-forwarded through time; other than Allie flipping and wriggling around in the crib (she sleeps hard, but she covers abut 5 miles), nothing happened.
"This is crazy. Maybe we do have a poltergeist," I said.
"I'm starting to agree." Ducky reached over and flipped the switch to live transmission. We had left Allie about ten minutes before; she was still awake, one hand in the air, fingers opening and closing, thumb of the other hand stuck in her mouth. She rolled over and sat up, looking around. She even looked straight at the camera—even though I knew she didn't know what it was, I wanted to duck, as though she could look through the lens and see us. She stood up and walked back and forth the length of the crib, over and over.
"Isn't she a little young to be pacing?"
"She's not pacing…" he said slowly. He leaned forward. "She's… gathering."
He was right. She was collecting all of her stuffed animals—the armfuls in the crib, as opposed to the mountains next to her crib—and piling them in one corner. "Well, she insists on having so many in there. There's hardly any room for—oh, my god!"
We both leaped to our feet. It had taken her only seconds to act—after piling the toys up, jammed tightly in the corner, she scrambled up the mountain and, holding on to the railing of the crib, launched herself into space. She had obviously done this before; she was well-practiced at this gymnastics routine.
We had kept the spare bed in her room even though we had a brand spanking new official guest room at the other end of the hall. Charlie liked to sleep in the same room as Allie (if they had been sisters, I know that wouldn't have held true). So when Allie took a flying leap she landed safely on the spare bed. She was now scrambling off the bed and heading toward the door.
I've never seen Ducky move so fast—or so quietly. He was upstairs in a flash, and I was only half a step behind him. Allie's door was open—and so was ours.
We peered around the doorjamb. A couple of feet away Allie was standing in front of the dresser, on the top step of the two-step stepstool I needed to reach the top shelf in the closet. She had her arms out like a bird or a plane and was bobbing this way and that, chirping nonsense to herself and admiring her performance in the mirror.
She saw us. And froze.
You could almost see the thought bubble over her head. Oh, crap! I am sooooo busted!
She caught us by surprise. She jumped to the ground, sped past us and was at her door before we turned around. By the time we entered her room she had scrambled to the bookcase headboard of the spare bed and was—I barely managed not to scream—flinging herself back into her crib.
"Alexandra!" I knew Ducky's face mirrored my own. Scared witless, trying not to laugh at the absurdity of it all—and impressed, too.
She stood up and held out her arms. "Da!" She clearly figured she could con us into believing she had been there the whole time.
With a rueful laugh he picked her up out of the crib. "Go get the toolbox," he said with a sigh. "We'll have it converted to a toddler bed by bedtime." He gave her a mock glare. "You monkey."
She scratched herself under her arms. "Ook!"