The Categorical Universe of Candice Phee (8 page)

“I haven't eaten carrots in . . .” I did some mental math. “Well, never, actually. I'm not sure that is mine.”

“Seems to be mine now,” he added, and stroked his mustache. “Not a problem, Pumpkin. A little water clears us of this deed.”

“That's Lady Macbeth,” I said. “You are rich, Rich Uncle Brian, and a computer expert. How do you know Shakespeare?” I would have been interested in his reply, but unfortunately I threw up again and that put a cap on
the conversation. If this was how my body responded to being on the gangplank (and clearly it was), I was concerned about how I would react when I finally got on deck. If water was going to clear us of these deeds, then it was just as well there was a whole ocean out there.

Within two hours we were surrounded by nothing, unless we counted the sea as something, which it obviously was. I managed to get rid of everything that had been in my stomach for the last three months, which raised interesting questions about biology. Surely I must have digested
something
in a quarter of a year? RUB gave me a bucket, which he emptied over the side at regular intervals. I worried about the fish out there.

In the short intervals between vomiting, I got straight to the point.

“Rich Uncle Brian,” I said. “There is a schism between you and my dad.” (I hadn't got to
S
in the dictionary yet, but was looking forward to it.) “This is a great shame and there must be a way to mend that breaaaaach.” I meant to say “breach,” but spread its syllable somewhat. I spread quite a bit of everything, actually. Rich Uncle Brian hosed down the deck and considered his response.

“Do we really want to go there, Pumpkin?” he said finally.

“Yes,” I said, wiping my mouth.

RUB sat opposite me and stroked his mustache, but kept his hand away from the coins in his pocket. I was pleased about this. It was obvious he was thinking carefully, weighing his words, deciding exactly
what he could or couldn't say about my father. I decided to help him out.

“I know that Dad thinks you stole his ideas and that you believe you didn't,” I said. “I do not make judgments, but it is obvious Dad is jealous of your success and wealth. And it is also obvious you have more money than is seemly. Wouldn't the simplest solution be if you gave him a gigantic pile of cash and then everyone would be happy?”

This was the longest speech I had made in, possibly, years. Not so much in terms of words (though I couldn't remember the last time I had strung so many together), but certainly as far as time was concerned. I have transcribed it as best I can remember, but it actually took ten minutes to get the words out as I was throwing up into a bucket for most of that time. Rich Uncle Brian cleaned up with a rueful expression and a mop that was getting smellier by the second.

“I've tried, Pumpkin,” he said. “I've tried. It's not that simple, unfortunately.”

Twelve years is not a huge number to accumulate and call it a life, but even so, I wouldn't mind a dollar for every time I'd heard that things are not that simple. I wouldn't be able to buy a yacht, but I could afford my own tricycle. I waited for RUB to continue. It was obvious he was squirming on the horns of a dilemma.

“I offered your dad half of my income from that patent,” he said. “He turned me down. What he wanted was the legal acknowledgment that he cowrote it, as well
as half the royalties. I couldn't accept that. He didn't write it. I did. The money? Hey, he was welcome to that. But I wouldn't lie about the authorship. I couldn't, Pumpkin. I simply couldn't.”

He scratched his nose and bent his head toward the contents of my sick bucket, which is indicative of how desperate he was to avoid my eyes. I'd seen inside that bucket, from close range, and it wasn't pretty.

“So you don't talk to each other because of a signature, or lack thereof, on a piece of paper?”

“Sounds silly when it's put like that, but yes. That's about the sum of it.”

I didn't say much for the rest of the trip. I needed to chew over the insights that Rich Uncle Brian had provided. As well as the remains of diced carrots stuck between my teeth. But just as we were coming into port, I gave it one more go.

“Rich Uncle Brian?” I said.

“Hmmm?”

“Do you still love your brother?”

While considering this question he plonked the empty bucket in front of me, did things with stainless steel cranks, threw ropes overboard, and tied them to metal posts. The yacht bobbed gently in the swell and ropes creaked. Or maybe that was my stomach. Finally, he sat down, took off his cap, and wiped sweat from his face. There were tears in his eyes.

“I do, Pumpkin. I surely do.”

“And would you do anything to mend that breach?”

“Of course. Apart from acknowledging he was the coauthor of my program. That's the only thing I cannot do.” He gave a tired smile. “And yet that's the only thing your father wants. It's an impossible situation, Pumpkin.”

I wasn't sure. A plan was forming in my mind. It wasn't foolproof. It wasn't ironclad. It wasn't even fully formed. More of a protoplan, really. But it might work. I was so excited by the possibilities I didn't even throw up as we went down the gangplank. And I didn't feel like talking as Rich Uncle Brian drove me home. He tried, though.

“Did you enjoy your trip?” he asked.

I tore my attention away from the logistical problems involved in my plan and gave his question some consideration. I knew it would be insensitive to tell the truth. A simple “Yes”—a white lie—was the required response, and I opened my mouth to do just that.

“It was disgusting, Rich Uncle Brian,” I said.

His mouth turned downward and I instantly felt bad.

“But I did enjoy our talk,” I added. Sometimes it is good to throw in two truths if one can compensate for the other.

“Tell me, Pumpkin,” he said a minute later. “Does your dad ever mention me? You asked if I still love him. Do you think there's a chance he still loves
me
?”

“No,” I said. “Whenever your name is mentioned, his mouth twists up and he mutters darkly.”

I couldn't think of another truth to make up for that one.

Rich Uncle Brian dropped me home at five o'clock. There was no sign of Mum. Her bedroom curtains were closed and the door was shut.

I went around the side of the house and stood in the doorway of Dad's shed. He had his headphones on and his computer lights were flashing. He didn't notice me, but that's not exactly news. I was able to see part of the screen as his fingers flashed over the keys. The screen was mainly dark apart from a series of symbols that scrolled down the page. His foot tapped relentlessly.

It was a mystery.

Dad
was a mystery.

I wheeled my tricycle to the front yard and through the gate. RUB had left a bike helmet draped over the handlebars. I put it on and tightened the chinstrap. Then I sat on the saddle, which was long, pointed, and designed to wedge itself firmly up my bottom. Apparently there are people who do this for enjoyment. I've seen them. They're obsessed with Lycra.

I fell off on the first turn.

I believe this is actually a matter for considerable pride. The tricycle was
very
stable. The back wheels were wide and, according to Douglas Benson from Another Dimension (whom I told the story to later), the trike should have remained upright in a cyclone. Douglas said it was contrary to the laws of physics to fall off that tricycle and I believe him. Douglas knows his physics. Nonetheless, no matter how offensive to science, I fell off and scraped my leg bloody on the asphalt. It was still more pleasant than being on Rich Uncle Brian's yacht.

Apart from that, I made it to my destination with no further mishaps. I hid the bike under a tree, although it was unlikely that anyone would happen to pass by and steal it. Then again, I reminded myself, it was exceptionally unlikely that anyone would fall off a tricycle, so I wasn't prepared to take chances. I walked the rest of the way.

Douglas's ravine was as pretty as ever. Well, I imagined it was as pretty as ever because I kept a healthy distance from the edge. It was six-fifteen, so I sat under a tree and kept a lookout. I was a coiled spring, ready to explode into action should the situation require. But fifteen minutes passed. And then twenty (which wasn't surprising, considering the nature of time), and Douglas didn't show.

I became an uncoiled spring at six-forty-five and walked back to my bike. I didn't fall off once on my way home, which was a relief both to me and the laws of physics.

I ruminated and cogitated throughout school on Monday. Probably more ruminating than cogitating, but certainly a considerable amount of both. One of the advantages of no one talking to me is that there is plenty of time for uninterrupted
R
and
C
.

This is the way my thoughts went:

Mum and Dad were miserable together, but were they miserable because they were together or would they be miserable in isolation? Dad might be miserable because Mum was always locked in her room, being miserable, but he might also be miserable because of the rift between himself and Rich Uncle Brian, which has nothing to do with Mum per se (though she would be more prone to being miserable with the miserable rift between her husband and her brother-in-law and therefore more likely to be less miserable if that miserable rift was healed).

But maybe Dad was miserable, not because of the rift, but because Rich Uncle Brian was the sole author of the patent, in which case he (Dad) would remain miserable regardless of rifts, healed or otherwise. And maybe Mum was miserable because of her breast cancer and the death of her daughter, in which case there would be nothing I could do, since I cannot raise the dead nor restore breasts once they have been removed, though maybe I could do something about giving her a reason to feel optimistic, so healing the rift might be a step in the right direction after all.

And maybe Rich Uncle Brian was miserable about something other than the rift, so healing it might not restore him to the heights of happiness.

And Douglas. He was miserable because he can't get back to his world, which (to be honest) I'm not convinced exists anyway, so getting him back there might prove to be an impossibility and even if it is all true then how could I do that when I don't even know what a tesseract is, let alone pea brains and all the other things necessary to make the journey a success (assuming it's possible)?

I was confused. It was no wonder no one talks to me.
I
wouldn't if I had a choice.

I decided I would start with a more straightforward task. Miss Bamford's eye. As far as I could determine, this was a simple problem with a simple solution.

I stopped at the joke shop on my way home from school (actually, it calls itself a party-hire shop, but I'm not sure I would go to a party with a whoopee cushion and a resin model of dog poop. Then again, I don't go to parties, so I'm not an expert). I invested twenty-four dollars of pocket money.

When I got home I rang Douglas Benson from Another Dimension and asked him to do some Internet research for me and to bring the information to school the following day. I could have asked Dad, but I didn't want to interrupt his strange-symbol scrolling. Mum was in bed again, so I heated leftovers in the microwave and ate by myself.

By the time I had finished it was close to six o'clock so I hopped on my bike (actually, I edged onto my bike—that saddle was like a razor blade) and headed off to the ravine again. There was more traffic, it being Monday, but I avoided getting killed, which would have put a damper on my day.

Douglas didn't put in an appearance for the second day running and I was pleased. Although it was likely I'd be riding to that ravine for the foreseeable future, I was happy if the only thing I experienced was a sore bottom rather than the sight of a friend plummeting to certain death (or an alternative universe, whichever came first).

It was a tired Candice Phee who crawled into bed at nine-thirty, having fed Earth-Pig Fish, who was not in the mood for constructive conversation. But it was also a contented Candice Phee, because she had plans to improve the general state of happiness in the world. True, it would make only a few people happy, but it was a start.

The rest of the world would have to wait.