Sort of Deadly

5 - Tortoises And Tortillas

I'm talking about Christmas eve, of course. What many call the night before Christ's birth. My parents being the agreeable, sociable citizens they are invited Aar's family and Marra's over for dinner in ethos of the festival.

Hello? Do you understand?

Their entire family.

'Momma, there's really no need,' I told my mother. 'I mean, can't we do it like every year? Aar can come over and we'll have a nice - '

'Bee.' She looked tired, like she wished this conversation had never begun. 'Is this how we raised you?'

'I'm afraid your mother is right, dots.'

Dad has been calling me 'dots' ever since he got me a polka-dot nightgown when I was, like, seven. Apparently, I fell in love with it and wore it day and night. He tells me I tried to wear it to school, too, but I refuse to believe that. Whenever I tell him to stop calling me that, he goes Who am I supposed to call dots but my own "dot"-er?

Uh, no one, Pops? It's not mandatory to call someone by that name. It's hardly a name in the first place.

(The only person lamer at Dad puns than my Dad himself would be Aar. I suppose you know.)

'Where did you even come from?' I asked him then.

'Bedroom,' Pops replied flatly. He doesn't seem to know what rhetorical questions are. 'This new friend of yours. This Marra kid. He lost his parents, didn't he?'

I looked down at my Crocs (what? They're comfy!), feigning shame. Everyone knows everything in small towns. 'Well, more or less,' I mumbled.

'More or less lost his parents?' Momma observed. I swear, she has ears like a moth. Or a bat. Or an owl. All of them have super strong hearing. 'What do you mean?'

'Yes, what do you mean, dots?'

Oh, and Pops has a tendency to repeat what others say. As Es would put it: I don't wike it.

What was I supposed to tell them anyway? That Mar's parents live on in spirit inside his Uncle? Now that would earn me a trip to the local priest, whom I try to avoid as actively as my young orthodontist.

'Nothing,' said I. 'You don't want to know.'

'We don't want to know.' See? Repetition!

'And his cousin, the one who's . . . ' Momma waned off. Obviously she was going to say "retarded" but was scouting for a better word. Then she gave up altogether. 'We barely know this new friend of yours. We only let you go with him because of Mr. Om - '

'Yes, Mr. Om - '

'-you know, his company recently featured in the Forbes' list of the Top 10 Most Successful Local Businesses in the - '

'-he donated to the Sunshine Charity for handicap children too, he's so kind - '

On and on they went. Sometimes I forget the grump we went through so much with is actually such a prosperous guy. I remember Aar even called him an "old fart" once. Mr. Om isn't much of a grump anymore, though. I’ve discovered that if you mention his favorite movie in front of him, he starts to fan-boy like a teenage girl over her beloved music-band. It’s nice to see there’s still a kid sitting inside that cranky body.

Only the kid's senescent. Always hibernating (like bears in winter, you know?), unless you mention anything related to The Godfather.

Yep, that’s his favorite movie.

(Don’t tell anyone - especially Aar The Movie Buff or Mr. Om The Dormant Fanboy - but I’ve never seen it. Nervous clinking.)

Mr. Om keeps mostly to himself in his gothic mansion. There have been some renovations there, like the glowering windows have been replaced by designer ones, the sphinx at the front gate (not door; gate - there's a difference) replaced by an altar of sorts, the walls inside decorated with patterned wallpapers, blooming plants (yay!) in the yard-garden, a gleaming gourmet kitchen, et cetera, et cetera. All a sign of Mr. Om's renewed spirit. He generally keeps himself occupied with work. I guess he wants to earn an honest name for himself, considering his present wealth originated mostly owing to his pelting after the Coven Thirteen. No one knows it, of course. But he knows.