The Ever Breath (12 page)

Artwhip slouched in his chair. “I was hoping we wouldn’t get to this kind of talk until dessert or so,” he said, and then he turned to Truman. “Tell my father something about yourself, Truman!” he said, giving a wink.

Right!
Distraction, that was why Truman was here. “I’m …” Truman had no idea what to say. He couldn’t say
that he was new to this world and he certainly couldn’t say that his father was Cragmeal, King of the Jarkmen. “I’m a fan of Artwhip’s hat!”

“Really?” Mr. Ostwiser said.

Artwhip hopped on the new thread of conversation. He pointed to the wooly blue hat on his head and smiled. “It fits perfectly!”

His father looked at the hat and then squinted at Artwhip in confusion. “Fits …?”

“This hat, it arrived today,” Artwhip said. “Just in time for the cold weather.”

“Why are you talking about a hat?” his father asked.

“Didn’t Mother knit this hat?”

“That
hat?” Mr. Ostwiser laughed as if Artwhip had made a joke. “If your mother wanted to knit a hat, she wouldn’t come up with that.”

Praddle hissed, and Truman quickly scooped her off of his shoulder and hid her on his lap.

“Take off that ridiculous thing,” Artwhip’s father said. “It looks like it was knit by an idiot child.”

“I’ll keep it on, thank you very much,” Artwhip said, and it was clear to Truman that these two had a long feud full of little battles.

The elf-sized waiter arrived with two menus. “Should we start with some nibblets?” he asked.

“Can we go ahead and order everything now?” Artwhip said. “I know what I want.”

The waiter looked at the menus in hand, baffled by the change of plan.

“No, no,” Mr. Ostwiser said. “Let’s look at the menus. No need to cause a rumbusticle!” He chuckled nervously.

“Do you know what you want, Truman?”

“I’d like the sugar-crusted angel bread,” Truman said, his mouth watering.

“I know what I want and you always get the same thing,” Artwhip said to his father.

“Just look at the menus!” Mr. Ostwiser smiled at the waiter. “Everything has its protocol!”

The waiter coughed. “The customer is always correct. If you want to order without looking at the menus, I can accommodate that.”

His father shook his head wearily. He preferred protocol.

“I’ll have the baked hen served on a bed of fruit peelings, with clotted-cream onions and steamed blue-veined cheese,” Artwhip said. “Oh, and partridge-egg soup. Can we get a basket of lemon-soaked bread heels and the angel bread too? And I’d like fruit water with shaved ice. And the cherry-scented chocolate broth for dessert.”

“Is that all, sir?” the waiter asked, but it was obvious that he couldn’t imagine there being more.

“Make it
two
cherry-scented chocolate broths,” Artwhip said.

“No, no,” his father said. “I don’t eat sweets.”

“They’re both for me,” Artwhip said. “Trying to put fat on my bones.” He patted the dip of his stomach. “Do you want one, Truman?”

Praddle pinched him. “Yes, please,” he said.

Artwhip held up three fingers for the waiter.

“And,” Truman said, “I’d like something that tastes …” He glanced at Praddle.

“Fissshy.”

“Is there something fishy?” Truman asked the waiter.

“The pepper-braised milkfish is excellent,” the waiter said, twitching his pointy ears.

Praddle pinched again. “Okay,” Truman said. “That will work. And I’ll have a peanut butter and jelly sandwich,” he added.

Everyone stared at him.

“A what?” the waiter asked.

“A peanut butter and jelly sandwich?”

“Who would put peanuts with butter and jelly?” Mr. Ostwiser said, disgusted.

“I can bring you a Danish goosebutter Danish,” the waiter offered. “Would that work?”

Truman nodded, embarrassed.

Artwhip’s father, his head tilted in a kind of apology, smiled at the waiter and then ordered the mutton, as usual.

The rest of the meal was guardedly polite. They discussed the rolling fog, the possibility of more snow. And as Truman and Artwhip tore into the lemon-soaked bread heels, Mr. Ostwiser asked questions that Artwhip avoided answering. For instance, when his father asked him where he was living, Artwhip told him that he was shuffling between friends. But Truman remembered him saying that he had a landlady, the one who’d spilled chatterbroth tea all over the letter that had come with the hat just that morning. When Mr. Ostwiser asked his son how he was spending his time, Artwhip told him he was looking for a job putting together
holiday travel packages. But wasn’t he a jarkman? Wasn’t he awaiting orders to help the revolution?

Truman tried to distract Mr. Ostwiser. He would interrupt and say “Great bread!” or “Where did you get that watch?” or “Is that scarf made of real fur?” But Artwhip’s father was like a steam engine. His questions just kept coming; there was no stopping him. And Artwhip was agitated by the inquisition.

Finally there was a question that put Artwhip over the edge.

“It’s time you found someone to settle down with,” his father said. “Your mother worries about you. She wants you to find someone who will watch over you. When will that be?”

“I don’t need someone keeping watch over me.” Artwhip leaned forward. “We have enough hedge-creeps and spies watching over us, don’t we?” he whispered.

His father shook his head and answered gruffly, “Don’t start. We all need protection!”

“We need spies, eavesdropping on all of us, taking notes on all of us? Do we really?”

His father looked around the room and smiled broadly, as if they were having a lovely conversation, and then he whispered through his gritted, smiling teeth. “You’ve read in the papers, no doubt, that Cragmeal is Public Enemy Number One and has been spotted with our enemies.” Truman wasn’t sure how Mr. Ostwiser could speak without moving his mouth.

“Yes,” Artwhip said.

“And our good friends the mice signed a contract just last week to keep an extra-watchful eye.”

Praddle purred at the word
mice
.

“I read it,” Artwhip said in a low voice. “The mice were praised for their patriotism, but they were bought off and they’ll now get their protection as they turn people in.”

“They could be anywhere.” His father picked up a lemon-soaked bread heel and used it to hide his mouth, whispering from behind it. “It’s dangerous to even utter things against the Office.” His jowls shivered as he spoke, and when his eyes locked onto Artwhip’s, Truman saw a taut expression of fear cross the older man’s face. “Now that the scoundrel is back, the eyes are everywhere, more than ever.”

“He’s not a scoundrel,” Truman said quietly.

“Be quiet. What do you know?” Mr. Ostwiser said to Truman.

“Don’t yell at the boy,” Artwhip said. “He’s allowed to still believe in heroes.”

“Don’t say such things!” Mr. Ostwiser reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket. “I’ve brought you some of these, Artwhip.”

He handed Artwhip a stack of business cards. Half of the face of the card was black and half was white. On the black side, the lettering was white. On the white side, it was black. “Us versus Them!” it read. “The difference is simple!” Artwhip flipped it over. Truman saw an address and the words “Report all suspicious behavior.”

“What’s this?” Artwhip asked.

“We’re widening the net,” Mr. Ostwiser said. Truman didn’t like the way he used the word
we
to describe what the Office was doing. “Dropping these cards off everywhere we go. You should help the cause. And”—he lowered his voice and slid one of the cards to Truman—“always keep at least
one of these on your person, at all times, just in case.” He drummed his fat fingers on the tabletop.

In case of what?
Truman didn’t ask. He was pretty sure he knew what. If he was apprehended in the middle of the night like the man in the tweed suit and blue necktie, he’d have proof that he was Officially Good.

“Take them,” Mr. Ostwiser urged.

“No,” Artwhip said. “We refuse. Don’t we, Truman? We don’t need to be reduced to Good or Evil. We are who we are.” And he pushed his card across the table back to his father.

Truman followed his new friend’s lead. “Sorry.” And he slid his card back too.

And that was when the waiter arrived. He was struggling under the weight of a large tray with two plates covered with silver domes. He put the first plate down in front of Mr. Ostwiser. He pulled off the dome and there was the steaming mutton.

“Lovely! Lovely!” Mr. Ostwiser said. “Thank you so much.”

As the waiter put Artwhip’s plate in front of him, Truman imagined the baked hen, the smell of onions and blue-veined cheese. When was the last time he’d been allowed to eat cheese? His mouth watered. Everything sounded good to him now.

The waiter whipped off the dome, but instead of a hen, there was a broiled rat.

Truman jumped up, knocking Praddle to the floor. Artwhip reared back from the table. His father gasped, covering his mouth with his cloth napkin.

The waiter cried out, “Oh no! I’m so sorry! How …?”

The rat was stiffened in a gnarled pose, its fur singed. Its four claws were sharp and splayed, its tail bent as if broken. It smelled charred and foul. Truman saw a small piece of paper attached by a thin wire to the rat’s left hind leg. The waiter moved swiftly and covered the rat again with the dome; then he froze, looking at Artwhip and his father for further instructions. Artwhip was shaking. Truman felt sick. The nearby tables were looking on now, whispering.

“Everything is fine!” the waiter said in a shaky voice. “Please go back to your meals!”

Mr. Ostwiser nodded to the other diners and tried to smile reassuringly.

The waiter tugged on his bow tie, rubbed his pointy ears, and whispered to Artwhip, “Should I take it away, sir?”

Mr. Ostwiser leaned across the table. “What kind of trouble are you in, son?”

“There was a note,” Truman said. “Did you see it?”

Artwhip closed his eyes for a second and nodded. “Lift the dome just a bit,” he instructed the waiter. “I need to get the piece of paper.”

“No,” his father hissed. “It could be a death warning. Don’t you know that?”

“A death warning?” Truman whispered. Praddle tugged anxiously at his cuffs. He picked her up.

“He’s from up in the highlands,” Artwhip said. “He doesn’t understand anything.” He turned to Truman and explained. “In respectable social circles, it’s only polite to give a warning if you plan to kill someone—there’s protocol for everything.” Under his breath he said to the waiter, “Lift it just enough and I’ll reach in and untie the note.”

The waiter glanced nervously around the room. “It’s got an awful feff,” he said, pinching his nose. “Move as quick as possible so as not to let out the stench.” Artwhip reached in and quickly untwisted the wire, freeing the note. He clutched the note in his fist and put his hand in his lap. The waiter lowered the lid.

Artwhip looked into his father’s wet, skittery eyes.

“Well?” Mr. Ostwiser said.

Artwhip read the note in a whisper: “‘Artwhip the Jarkman of the Family from Hindman near Toot Hill: Someone is preparing to take your life. You have been fairly warned. Sincerely, T.T.S.’”

Artwhip, his eyes wide, looked at Truman. “So you
are
a futurist,” he said.

“Maybe it doesn’t have to happen,” Truman blurted out. “Maybe we can avoid it!”

Artwhip looked up at the waiter still standing by, and then at his father.

As soon as their eyes met, his father reached into his pocket and placed a wad of bills on the table. He was pale and unsteady as he got to his feet. “Your mother …,” he said in a quavering voice. “I won’t breathe a word of this. It would destroy her.” He coughed as if trying to push down a sob.

Artwhip stood up. “Don’t go. Not yet. Let me explain.”

“No need. This would only happen to someone who was—” He broke off. “Are you with the underground, the jarkmen?” he whispered. “Is that it?”

Artwhip looked at the ground.

“How could you?” His father’s eyes roved around the dining room nervously. “My own son. My Artwhip …” And
then, incapable of stopping himself, he opened his arms and hugged his son clumsily. Truman thought of his own father and missed him. He felt a tightness of emotion in his chest, his throat.

With his mouth to Artwhip’s ear, Mr. Ostwiser whispered, “If this killer doesn’t hunt you down, the Office will come after you full of suspicion, ready for capture. The Office knows all. Every jarkman is on their list. Every one. The Office knows things that we can never know! I pray that you can stay alive, that you can keep your soulcase intact. There’s nothing I can do for you.” With that, he let go of Artwhip and took a few unsteady steps backward. As he tried to find his balance, he grasped the back of his empty chair and his hand fell on the fur scarf. Truman stared as he hurriedly picked it up, wrapped it around his neck, and then walked through the restaurant, grabbing his coat from a row hung on hooks. He gave one backward glance and then pushed open the restaurant door.

Binderbee Biggby was small—even for a mouse—but he was quick. He’d been posted by the Office of Official Affairs to a nest in the dirt walls of Miss Spottem’s cellar for only two days, awaiting some kind of proof of illegal activity from a suspected jarkman, Artwhip Ostwiser. Binderbee had curled his long, thin tail around himself to keep warm, his small, pink ears perked.

And finally it had come, in the form of the nearly ruin’t letter.

He’d waited for the jarkman to leave, then tipped over a wastebasket, with a good bit of effort, and collected the letter. He’d folded it up and put it in his briefcase and run as fast as he could to the Office of Official Affairs, nearly getting trampled by some galumphing kid and an angry mewler along the way.

And then he’d slipped along the marbled floors, past all the workers in cubicles and under the humming lights. And talked his way past the secretary into Dobbler’s grand gilded office with its mantel adorned with photographs of
Dobbler shaking hands with the most venerable of venerables and his chrome microphone that sent out the alerts and warnings heard from the bullhorn speakers throughout the city. Dobbler even had a private washroom with a lock and key.