The Categorical Universe of Candice Phee (7 page)

Douglas must have been counting down, because at precisely six-thirty (I say “precisely,” but of course my watch might have been wrong) he bent his legs, swung his arms back, and launched himself into the air.

He landed in a puff of dust.

Douglas opened his eyes and I saw such a look of loss that it made my breath catch. He glanced at me and shook his head.

“Not enough gravity,” he whispered.

“Dad?” I said on the way home.

“Hmmm?”

“Can I have a bike?”

He looked at me for a moment before returning his eyes to the road.

“You can't ride a bike, Candice.”

It was true. I found it almost impossible to believe that anyone could balance on such thin strips of rubber, even though I'd seen it happen many times.

“I could learn.”

“Maybe for your birthday.”

That was no good, though I didn't say anything. I needed a bike by tomorrow. For once in my life I had somewhere I needed to be and transport was a problem.

Dear Denille
,

I understand that Americans are fond of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. On the off-chance that you have pursued happiness and caught it, I would welcome your advice
.

My family is a mess. Ever since my baby sister died, things have become steadily worse. I could go into intimate detail about the causes for this, but I know that you are American and therefore time-poor. Consequently, I will be brief:

Mum: breast cancer, double mastectomy, depression
.

Dad: thwarted ambition, loss of wife's love (possibly), resentment of brother, Brian, for perceived wrongs
.

Rich Uncle Brian: materially wealthy, but emotionally poor
.

Candice (me): socially inept
.

Add to this list a permanent sense of loss and possible guilt because of dead sister, Sky, and, as you can imagine, we are not the front-runners for Australian Happy Family of the Year
.

What's more, SIGNIFICANT OTHERS are faring no better. Take my English teacher, Miss Bamford. She has an eye that is not so much lazy as a complete bludger (do you have that word in America? You should. Actually, now you do, if you didn't before—an unexpected benefit of cross-cultural communication. What fun!). Children can be cruel. Her bludger eye causes much teasing from her students and I know this upsets her
.

Then there is Douglas Benson from Another Dimension, who is desperately unhappy at being stuck in this dimension with facsimile parents who are neither quantum physicists nor experimental musicians. I worry he is paying too much attention to a certain ravine. Sorry to be cryptic, but I daresay you get the general idea
.

Now. The thing is this. Everyone wanders around, more or less aimlessly, in apparent acceptance of their fate. Douglas is the exception. He spends time jumping out of trees, but becomes dispirited when nothing happens except the occasional sprained ankle. No one is successfully pursuing happiness, with or without sprained ankles. I suspect happiness for us is not even a dot on the horizon, but has emigrated to foreign climes and left no forwarding address. Maybe it's gone to America
 . . .

This must change
.

I talked things over with Earth-Pig Fish last night, as is my wont when momentous things are weighing me down. Or
not
weighing me down, which is another matter entirely. I have to tell you, Denille, that in addition to all
the other troubles afflicting me, I am totally flat-chested. My breasts have either never made an appearance, or they went AWOL as soon as they did (I suspect it is the former). Earth-Pig Fish did not help in any practical way, especially with the breast dilemma, but I took her repetitive mouth opening as a piscine method of showing emotional support (I am up to the letter
P
in my nightly reading of the dictionary. It is an interesting letter)
.

You see, I want to pursue happiness. I want to catch it, grab it by the scruff of the neck, drag it home, and force it to embrace all the people I mentioned above
.

I'm just not sure how to accomplish this. But I am determined to try
.

What do you think of my plan?

Your pen pal
,

Candice

P.S. I suppose it isn't really a plan. A plan should . . . well, plan, I imagine. The pursuit of happiness is more of a goal or a wish. If you think of a plan, please let me know. In the meantime, I'll make it up as I go along
.

I rang Rich Uncle Brian when I got home and arranged to go sailing on his yacht the following day (Sunday). He was very surprised.

“I'm very surprised, Pumpkin,” he said, which gave me the initial clue.

I couldn't blame Rich Uncle Brian for being surprised. He had been trying for years to get me on board and I had always refused. I refused, not because I was being deliberately obstructive, but because boats make me sick. Literally. I do not have sea legs. I don't have sea arms. In fact, no part of my anatomy, from the smallest cell to the most major of organs, is sea anything. I throw up if someone shows me a photograph of a ship. I am suspicious of swirling water in a bathtub. You get the general idea.

“So am I, Rich Uncle Brian,” I replied. “But it is because I need a bike.”

There was a long pause on the other end of the phone. He was probably furrowing his brows and stroking his mustache, but I wasn't in a position to say for certain. But
the odds were certainly on him doing that while jingling loose change in his pants pocket.

“Not sure of the connection between the two, Pumpkin,” he replied eventually.

“I can understand that,” I said.

There was a further long pause, which I enjoyed. I am a fan of pauses.

“Why do you want a bike, sweetie?” he asked.

“I am not at liberty to say.”

“But you can't ride a bike.”

“True. I was hoping for one with training wheels.”

“Aren't you a little old for training wheels?”

“Probably. But I am not trying to make a fashion statement.”

Rich Uncle Brian sighed. He does this a lot when we talk. Sighs and pauses. Pauses and sighs. It works for us. Then he spoke with the air of a man trying for one last time to get an answer he could understand.

“Are you saying that you will come on board the
Motherboard
if I buy you a bike with training wheels, Pumpkin? A kind of barter—one favor for another?”

That's the name of Rich Uncle Brian's yacht.
Motherboard
. I think he is exceptionally pleased with this name. He once told me he had sailed with my mother on board the
Motherboard
and then laughed for a very long time. I laughed, too, even though the joke was so weak it could barely stand. It is good to laugh at other people's jokes. It gives them pleasure and I am in favor of that.

“Correct, Rich Uncle Brian,” I replied.

“I'm happy to buy you a bike, Pumpkin. You don't have to go sailing with me to pay for it.”

I knew this was true. RUB always wants to buy me things. It annoyed Dad and caused him to mutter. It worried Mum. It worried me, too, because I rarely wanted anything. The only person it actually pleased was Rich Uncle Brian, and that was strange when you thought about it. Maybe it was best not to think about it.

“I know,” I said. “But I also need to talk to you. In private. And it does not get much more private than a yacht in the middle of the sea. Unless we are boarded by pirates, of course, but I am prepared to take my chances.”

We arranged that he would pick me up at seven in the morning. RUB promised to have a bike for me—I would need it on the Sunday evening—but I had no idea how. It was eight-thirty on a Saturday night and the shops would be closed. But Rich Uncle Brian is rich, and people who have money can achieve anything. Dad told me that, though he didn't seem especially happy when he muttered it.

I didn't eat that night. I didn't have breakfast in the morning, either. It struck me that there wasn't much point, since I'd probably be seeing it again (all down my front and splattered on my shoes) a few hours later. I
also asked Earth-Pig Fish's advice on dealing with water, because avoiding seasickness must count as her specialty. She wasn't in a communicative mood, however, so it didn't help.

I left a note on the kitchen table telling Mum and Dad I was spending the day with RUB. There was no one around and, after all, they can both read. Then I lined my shoes with brown paper. I'd read somewhere that this is good for preventing jet lag and I thought it might work for other forms of travel. My reasoning was that if it didn't, the worst that could happen was I'd have brown paper in my shoes. This, let's be honest, was not a huge inconvenience, if I ignored the fact that I crackled slightly when I walked.

Rich Uncle Brian turned up at seven in his very big SUV. He unloaded a bike from the back of the car and wheeled it down the side of our house. It was a proper-sized bicycle and it had two big wheels at the back instead of the customary one. A grown-up tricycle, in fact.

“It's perfect, Rich Uncle Brian,” I said. “How did you get it at such short notice?”

He rubbed the side of his nose.

“Ah, that's for me to know and you to find out,” he said, and winked.

“It is unlikely I'll find out if you don't tell me,” I replied. I wasn't a detective and Rich Uncle Brian knew this. But I winked back at him anyway.

As we walked to his car, he stopped and gazed at me.

“You are crackling when you walk,” he stated.

“Indeed,” I replied. There was no point denying it.

He scratched his nose.

“Any reason?”

“I have brown paper in my shoes.”

Rich Uncle Brian's mouth opened, and it was obvious he was on the point of framing a question. But then he closed it again and opened the car door for me.

“Of course you have,” he muttered out of the side of his mouth. I was glad we had both accepted this because it was clearly true and not open to any kind of interpretation.

We headed for the marina, which was where Rich Uncle Brian kept his boat. It's what marinas are for, after all. It took an hour and three minutes and we spent that time discussing my motives for going on board. Well, RUB discussed the motives. He knows about my chronic seasickness and was curious as to why I would put myself through it just to talk to him, which is something I could do at the local burger bar over something deep fried and of dubious origin (see “B Is for Birth”). One of the advantages of being me is that no one expects sensible answers to sensible questions, so he didn't make much progress. But it passed the time.

Even I have to admit that RUB's yacht is beautiful. It is white. And long. And luxurious. It has
Motherboard
written in cursive script on the prow (that's the front of the boat—I think I mentioned I am up to
P
in the dictionary) and there are all sorts of amenities on board. Two
large bedrooms with DVD players built into the ceilings. A spa, in case RUB wanted more water than the ocean provided. On deck, there are tall masts with winches, ropes, and stainless steel cranks for purposes that remain a mystery to me.

Rich Uncle Brian was dressed all in white and sported a peaked cap with
Motherboard
written in cursive characters identical to the letters on the side of the yacht. He wore pure white deck shoes, which I threw up on as soon as I set foot on the gangplank.

“Sorry, Rich Uncle Brian,” I said.

He looked down at what appeared to be diced carrots on his previously pristine (the letter
P
is fabulous!) shoes and smiled crookedly.

“Love is never having to say you're sorry, Pumpkin,” he said.

“I have no idea what that means,” I replied.

“Neither do I,” he replied.

I gestured toward his shoes.