Brian Coad: Taking Care of Daddy

“Di—uh—indigents don’t frighten me. I may be one some day.”

“We hope not, Bonnie Girl. Should that occur, we would surely make you welcome. May I escort you to Scuffle Street?”

Melissa waved at his tin cup. “Won’t you be losing money?”

“You’re most thoughtful. Whatever I lose, it will be trifling. Come. Let us be on our way.”

Yo Yo, swinging like a pendulum on his crutches, led Melissa away from the city center. After a maze of alleys, they came to a grimy street with a wide center strip of brown grass and drooping bushes. Clusters of cardboard boxes nestled among the bushes. “This,” said Yo Yo, “is Scuffle Street. In these fine residences dwell many of Gimbel City’s most distinguished citizens.”

Raggedy people sat by some of the boxes, taking in sunshine, or cooking over twig fires. Feet in tattered socks stuck out of others. A number of closed boxes had DON’T DISTURB signs on them. There were cooking smells and smoky fire smells and people smells.

Yo Yo escorted Melissa to a box assembly that was almost an apartment, compared to the singletons. He tapped with a crutch. A flap went up. A large-bosomed, friendly faced woman wriggled out. “This is my wife, Sarah,” said Yo Yo. “Sarah, meet Bonnie Girl.”

Melissa shook hands, warming to Sarah.

“As you can see,” said Yo Yo, “we live in considerable luxury.”

“You have a charming home,” said Melissa, talking like a perm. “It is most ingenious of you to have put it together.”

“Don’t spoil him,” Sarah said, but she looked pleased. (So did Yo Yo.) “Would you care to have lunch with us?”

“I’d love to.”

“We’ve nothing but worm soup, I’m afraid.”

“I really shouldn’t trouble you.” Melissa had tasted worm soup before, when they were really short of money. She wasn’t fond of it.

“No trouble. Sarah won’t even need a fire. The cans self-heat.”

So she stayed to lunch. The soup wasn’t too bad, after all, and Yo Yo’s conversation about weather, politics, people, and Gimbel City was interesting. She left in time to be home before her daddy would be back from work. In their hutch, she rested, and read a book, and thought how lucky she’d been to meet Yo Yo and Sarah.

She changed back into her frilly dress. The moment her daddy came in, he said she was still as pretty as a vid-star.

Their second day in Gimbel City, after getting Daddy off to work, Melissa had to decide what to wear to school. Important decision. She didn’t want to give a wrong impression on her first day.

She settled on a blue businesslike outfit. The skirt was a bit short. She put on pretty blue panties underneath, so that was all right. There was no mirror in the hutch, but she was sure she’d pass for a perm’s daughter.

On the way to school, a shop-window mirror told her she would.

In the school, a secretary person took her to her classroom, introduced her to a severe lady in a tailored suit, Ms. Simpson. Ms. Simpson told her where to sit. She sat, and looked around. It was a pretty small class, not more than fifty students.

All morning Ms. Simpson taught cash flow, balance of payments, and other stuff perms needed to know. Melissa followed it easily. She had a quick mind, and had done a lot of reading. Other kids in the class took no notice of her. That was fine. She was okay by her own self, not needing much of anyone except her daddy.

Lunch time came. She found the cafeteria without asking the way. At an unoccupied table, she opened a can of soup, pea, not worm.

A skinny boy came to her table. “I’m Peter Garrity Three,” he said in a squeaky voice. “Can I share your table?”

Melissa hesitated. Peter Garrity Three had thick glasses and a pointy nose. She didn’t much like the look of him.

“If you’ll let me sit with you, I’ll share an orange with you.”

Assuming he’d bought permission, the boy sat down.

Melissa thought how much she liked oranges, and didn’t protest.

The boy’s bag clearly held a lot more than one orange. With all that food, she wondered, why’s he so thin? He brought out sandwiches and two oranges, gave Melissa one, then offered her a sandwich.

She hesitated again, but took it.

“I am rich,” said Peter Garrity Three. “I imagine you are, too?”

“Perhaps.” The sandwich was ham, with a delicious smoky taste.

“That is to say,” Peter went on, “I will be rich. My grandfather, Peter One, made a lot of money. My father, Peter Two, is making a great deal more. When I grow up, I shall do the same.”

“That is precisely my intention.” The way he said “father,” Melissa felt sorry for him. Clearly, he didn’t have a daddy.

“I bet your family’s not as rich as mine. I bet your father hasn’t set up a spare parts menagerie for you, as mine has for me.”

“I’ll have one for my children when I grow up.” Melissa’d read about spare parts menageries. Rich people had them to provide body part replacements for any of theirs that might fail. She wasn’t sure what kind of animals were used, but she was interested. Anything to do with animals interested her.

Peter said: “Would you like to see mine?”

“Perhaps.”

“After school, then. I will take you home and show you.”

Outside the school, waiting for the Garrity kid, Melissa asked little cat talk questions of Henrietta in her head, like, what sort of animals was she going to meet? Would they talk to her? Henrietta wasn’t really there, so she didn’t say anything back.

Peter came. He hoped she was fit. They had to climb the highest hill outside Gimbel City to the best site for a home in the area.

Melissa said she was fit.

At a showing-off pace, Peter led her along the city streets. Soon they were clear of the city and climbing. Melissa asked why he didn’t have a car with a big gorilla of a chauffeur to drive him to school.

“My father believes I need exercise.”

Beyond that, they hardly exchanged a word. Fine. Melissa hadn’t breath to spare for conversation.

Higher up, the landscape grew wilder, their road snakier. They entered a wood with pheasants, peacocks, squirrels. Would Peter slow down if she spoke to a squirrel? Better not, she decided.

The wood ended at an open hilltop plateau, landscaped and lawned. Their path twisted between flowering shrubs and little lakes to an enormous mansion. Peter quit the path and marched her straight across the lawns. He keyed open the mansion’s front door and waved her to go in. She didn’t much want to be shut up inside with the boy. He said, “This is the quickest way to my menagerie.” So she entered.

The house seemed to go on forever. Melissa tried not to be impressed, but was. “Your father must be richer than I’d thought.” “He probably is.”

“But where are all the people? Servants, and so forth.”

“They’re at work. We hire temps and rent them out by day. They pay for themselves and make us a nice profit.”

What a good idea, thought Melissa. I’ll do that when I grow up.

They left the house by a back door. Peter pointed to another nearby building, white walls, no windows. “That’s it. My menagerie.”

At the menagerie entrance, Peter punched in numbers on a panel, 683597213. Melissa watched closely. Her daddy’d said people who know numbers that do things have power. She’d remember 683597213.

The door swung open. She went inside. All she saw was a lot of huffing, clunking machinery. No animal noises. No animal smells.

Peter took her past the machines into a large glass-walled hall. Still no smells or noises. Maybe his animals were only virtual.

Then she saw the walls were really glass cages. She looked into the nearest one. It had a rabbit in it, all connected to wires and tubes and stuff. The rabbit looked healthy, but there was no life in it. It might as well have been molded from wax.