Portable Childhoods Page 15

  Mattie hesitated for a moment, then lifted the rolled edge of the paper cup to her lips. She tipped it and felt something cool, like whipped air, flow onto her tongue. Then there were flavors.

  They changed and mixed and separated as the stuff flowed back on her tongue and down her throat. She tasted a fuzzy sweetness, then coconut and a salty tang, then a different, sharper sweet and a bit of burnt and smoke and way in the back of her mind she thought about her father mowing the grass.

  The flavors lingered for a minute before fading, bit by bit, until all she could taste was mouth again. She licked her lips and peered into the paper cup. It was empty and just barely damp on the bottom.

  Mattie tried to put a name to what she’d tasted, but her brain wouldn’t give her a word. “Wow. What flavor was that?”

  “What did it make you think of?” Nan was sitting up on the table, one foot propped on the stool.

  “Lots of things, I guess. Drinking a coke, and going swimming and being too hot and putting on suntan lotion. And then I thought about barbecuing hamburgers and my dad mowing the lawn. You know, summer stuff.”

  Nan smiled and clapped her hands. Her eyes were shining like she was maybe going to cry, except that she looked too happy. “Turn the cup over,” she said.

  On the bottom, in pencil, it said suMMer afternoon.

  “But summer’s not a flavor,” Mattie said.

  “You just tasted it, didn’t you?”

  “Yeah, but…”

  “But when you think about flavors, you think chocolate, or strawberry, or maybe barbecue potato chips, right?”

  “Yeah. And this was more like a movie that went from my tongue to my brain. It was…” Mattie stopped talking or breathing for a minute, then said, very slowly, “It was what you said. It was like pictures I could taste.”

  Nan smiled. “Well, that’s what I do down here.”

  “Wow.” Mattie looked at Nan with admiration. “How did you figure out how to do that?”

  “First I went to school for a long time.” Nan leaned back against a bare spot on the wall.

  “Chemistry stuff?”

  “Mostly. And physiology. How people’s bodies work.”

  “Oh.” Mattie rolled that idea around for a minute. “Like taste buds?”

  “Yep. And a few other things. What do you know about taste buds?”

  Mattie bit her lip. “We had them in school. They’re the bumpy parts of your tongue, and they tell your brain what you’re eating. Some of them can taste salty, and some can taste sour, and some can taste sweet, and the rest taste stuff like coffee. I don’t like coffee.”

  “Because it tastes yucky to you, right?”

  “Yeah.” Mattie made a face.

  “And yucky things don’t make you feel good.”

  “Of course not.”

  “See, there you go. But feeling good isn’t a taste or a flavor. It’s an emotion.” Nan looked down at her lap for a minute. “That’s what fascinates me about tastes and smells. Each taste bud has about fifty different receptors, and they’re all connected with two different parts of your brain. One is the part that thinks and the other is the part that feels. So a taste can be just a taste, like the cherry flavor in Froot Loops, but it can also bring up emotions and memories. Like a summer afternoon.”

  “If you made summer-flavored ice cream, would it taste like the stuff in the little cup?” Mattie asked.

  “I suppose. But I don’t think Fred would have many customers asking for it.”

  “I would,” Mattie said quickly. “Well, maybe not in the summer, ’cause it’s happening then already. And we don’t come here in the winter. But if I could get some to go, I’d put it in the freezer at home, and eat summer in the winter, when it’s cold and I can’t go outside, just to remember.”

  Nan smiled. “Well, if you want to come back some weekend next month, I’ll make up a batch, just for you, to take home.”

  “I’d like that. It would be like a late birthday present.”

  “When’s your birthday?”

  “The day after tomorrow,” Mattie said. “I’m going to be nine.”

  “Nine, huh? Are you going to have a party?”

  Mattie shook her head. “Probably not. My dad has to leave tomorrow, on account of working, and he won’t be up again until Friday, and by then it won’t be my birthday anymore. My mom said that on my real birthday she’ll drive me and all three of my brothers to the place with the fried clams, over in Lake City, but that’s not exactly a party.”

  “What about your friends?”

  “They’re all at home in Grand Rapids. Nobody’s my friend on the lake this summer. They’re all boys or else they’re old.”

  Nan looked at her for a minute and smiled a sad-looking smile. “I know the feeling. That’s kind of how it is for me at work, being a chemist.” She stood up and stretched. “I’d guess that I fall into your ‘old’ category, but I’d be pleased to have you as a friend. If you want.”

  “Okay,” Mattie agreed.

  “And if we’re friends, then I ought to give you a birthday present, right?”

  Mattie nodded. “Summer ice cream.”

  “No. You’ve already tried that. Besides, it is kind of a waste to eat it in July. For your birthday, I’d like to give you a really special flavor. One that I wouldn’t share with just anybody.”

  “That would be very neat,” Mattie said seriously. It was the first birthday present she thought she’d be excited about opening. “But if it’s ice cream, then my brothers will probably find it in our freezer and eat it all.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s just flavor. I’ve got some little jars with screw-on lids that I use to take samples back and forth between here and my lab at work. You can put one in your pocket and it’ll be your secret. Your brothers will never know.”

  She rummaged around at the back of the table and came up with a small blue glass jar. She put her glasses on again, picked up a pen, and wrote something on a white label, then licked the back of the paper and stuck it onto the jar. Mattie couldn’t see what it said.

  Nan opened the cabinet and scanned the list on the door. She reached way back to the back of the top shelf, so far that Mattie could only see her shoulders. Then she emerged again with another white paper cup in her hand. “This is the last of this batch,” Nan said. She screwed off the jar lid, and slowly poured out the thick white cloud of flavor until the cup was empty, then screwed the lid back on.

  “Happy birthday, Mattie.” Nan handed her the jar.

  It felt cool in Mattie’s hand. The glass was dark blue and reminded her of Vicks. She turned it around and read the label, printed in neat capital letters: Magic.

  “But…but…” Mattie stared at the jar and then up at Nan.

  “What’s a scientist know about magic?” Nan shrugged. “Look around, kiddo. The world is an amazing place. The stuff we can explain is what we call science. But all the rest—”

  “What does it taste like?”

  “I can’t really tell you. It will taste like whatever is magic to you. The last time for me was like walking in the door of a kitchen where the most wonderful food I’d ever dreamed of was simmering on the stove, made with spices whose names I didn’t know, all jumbled together so there might have been two or three or twenty. There was a little bit of something golden, just on the back of my tongue, mixed with a touch of danger that faded into a warm sweetness, like toffee made on another planet.” Nan smiled. “It’s different every time.”

  Mattie looked at the jar in her hand. “This is the best present I’ve ever gotten in my whole life.” She gave Nan a hug and tucked the jar into her pocket.

  “Enjoy it, kiddo. I hope—” Nan was interrupted by a loud banging on the cellar door.

  “Nan? Nan? Storm’s passed on through. You okay down there?” It was Mr. Bingham.

  “Just fine, Fred.” Nan yelled and went over to push aside the iron bolt. The door was flung open from the outside, and pale afternoon light f
looded into the cellar. Outside, little wisps of steam were coming off the pavement, and the air felt soft and clean, as if the earth had just done laundry.

  Mattie’s mother grabbed her in a tight hug as soon as she was up the stairs. She smelled like hairspray and beauty shop chemicals. “Oh, baby, I was so worried. I waited in Lake City til the storm was over, and when I got home, your dad said he’d told you to go down to Miller’s.”

  “Bob Miller closed up early. But Mattie did the right thing,” Nan said. “Saw my oPen sign and got herself in out of the rain. We went down to the cellar when it really started to let fly.”

  Mattie wriggled loose from the hug and watched her mother look hard at her new friend, trying to decide if it was okay to like Nan or not. She finally put out her hand. “Well, thank you. I’m Eileen Rodgers. I don’t think we’ve met.”

  Nan shook hands. “Nan Bingham.”

  “Nan’s my sister. Works down at the Kellogg plant. She’s a food chemist.” Fred said proudly.

  “Oh. Isn’t that interesting,” Mattie’s mother said. There was a moment of awkward silence, then she turned back to Mattie. “Well, let’s get you home and out of those wet clothes. The station wagon’s parked over at Miller’s.”

  Mattie waved goodbye to Nan and they walked across the parking lot. When they came to the edge of the highway, her mother reached down to take Mattie’s hand.

  “Mom,” Mattie said, shaking her head, “You said I’m a big girl now.” Her mother made a face that was half a smile and half a frown, but let her hand drop back to her side. As they crossed the yellow line, Mattie curled her fingers tighter around the jar of magic in her pocket and smiled at the clouds moving off to the east.

  Ringing Up Baby

  NANNY SAYS that I am spoiled. It comes from being an only child, and not having to share holidays or cakes and always getting to sit by the window. If I had a little brother or sister, I would learn responsibility. More work for her, she sighs, but she is only thinking of my character. Thinking about me is Nanny’s job.

  Of course, Mother is far too busy to have a baby right now, what with the Henderson case and all. (When I have supper with her, on Wednesdays, she talks about nothing but the Henderson case.) So Nanny has arranged for a nice lady to plant Mother’s egg and do all the messy parts, then give the baby to us when it’s done.

  “What would you like,” Nanny asks me over cocoa. “A brother or a sister?”

  I have to think for a moment, but only a little, because a brother would be a pest and get into my best things, like Courtney Taylor’s brother Robby, who programmed her mobile phone to ring with a nasty farting sound. A sister is someone I can be the boss of.

  “A sister, please,” I say in my sweet voice. Nanny loves my sweet voice.

  Nanny touches a box on the wall screen, and it glows bright pink. “Birthday?” she asks, her finger not quite touching the screen, but ready.

  My birthday is in June. “October,” I say after a minute, because I’ve had to count in my head, so her party won’t get in the way of Christmas, either.

  “Excellent,” says Nanny. “We can place our order now.” She taps her finger on the screen. That box glows red.

  “What else can we pick?” There are a lot of boxes. I finish my cocoa and stand right next to Nanny, who smells like Vermont today. A nice cool green smell.

  She begins to read to me, scrolling slowly down.

  “Hair color?”

  “Brown.” Mine is honey blond.

  “Eyes?”

  Mine are blue, so brown again.

  “Intelligence?”

  I have to think about that. I don’t want a sister who’s stupid, but if she’s smarter than me, she will be difficult to boss.

  “Above average,” Nanny decides. “Good at math?”

  Hmm. I’m in second grade, and we’re doing the times tables. That could be useful. But it probably isn’t something she’ll be able to do right away.

  So I shrug, which is a mistake, because Nanny is very strict about manners and posture and I have to listen to a lecture before she will tap the bottom of the screen and scroll to the next page of baby parts.

  This page is less interesting because the words are very long and I don’t know what they mean. Bioimmunity. Cholesterol. Neuro-muscular. I stare at the screen with my eyes very wide so that I don’t yawn out loud.

  On the side of the screen is a list, like the menu on the Emirate of Toys site, which I used by myself last year for my Christmas wants. The baby list is not very long. Babies only come in about six colors—we’re getting one that matches Mother and me. Humans are a lot less interesting than Legos or iBots.

  Nanny reads me all the diseases you can ask your baby not to have. Most of them are options, she says, which means we have to pay more. But I think we should pick them all, because a sick sister is not a good thing. Angela Xhobi’s sister has asthma, because she was made the old-fashioned way, without a menu, and she gets all the attention. I wouldn’t like that.

  Nanny takes a breath for another lecture, but I am saved when the iVid sings the Phone Call Song. Nanny sighs again and when she says, “Connect,” I see that it’s her mother, who calls every afternoon. Mrs. Nanny is quite deaf, even with her implants, so Nanny taps saVe on the baby screen and goes downstairs where she can shout without me hearing all the words. “Little pitchers,” she says to her mother as she grays the upstairs iVid. I don’t know what that means.

  I slump back into my chair, because Nanny isn’t here to tell me not to, and because she will be gone a long time. Her mother always has a lot to say. I stare at all the diseases, and then I see a better word at the bottom of the screen. PETS.

  We don’t harbor animals, because Nanny is allergic. (She was made the old-fashioned way, too.) But I’d like to see what we could have. I touch the screen to scroll down for more pets, and a Bubble Man appears to tell me about a special offer. His picture seems to come out of the wall and stand right in front of me.

  “Jellyfish DNA on sale,” the Bubble Man says. He takes off his top hat, pulls a rabbit out of it, and holds it out toward me. The rabbit’s fur glows a soft, bright green.

  “Wow,” I say.

  “Bioluminescence, fifty percent off. Today only. Touch Box 306a to order!” He steps back into the screen and disappears with a little picture of smoke.

  It only takes me a minute to find Box 306a and tap it to red. Then I saVe and scroll back up to the disease boxes. It is good to leave things just the way you found them.

  I sit very straight in my chair, humming, because I know a secret. Once I have my baby sister, I will never need my night-light again.

  Nanny will be so proud.

  Guys Day Out

  ANDREW CLEMENS HAD always wanted a son.

  A boy to take fishing, share ice cream right out of the carton, play baseball on a Saturday afternoon.

  He got Tommy.

  Tommy had a sweet smile, spatulate fingers, soft-focus eyes.

  “Mongoloid,” the doctor said. “Sorry, Andy. But he’s mentally retarded. He may never get beyond simple tasks like dressing himself.”

  Andrew was silent for a minute. “When can I see him?”

  “It’s not a good idea.” The doctor shook his head. “He should be in an institution, and you don’t want to get attached. They’re fine places, really. It’s 1960, not the dark ages. But it’ll be easier on Helen if she doesn’t know, if you sign the papers before she comes out of the anesthetic.” He patted Andrew on the shoulder. “Give her a few weeks, let her rest, then try again. It’s for the best.”

  “I want to see my son,” Andrew said. “I’ll take my family home.”

  “Are you sure he can handle this?” Helen asked.

  “C’mon. He’s ten. It’s Guys Day Out. He’s been excited about it all week. I’m not going to try to teach him to cast or anything. I got him a bamboo pole and a carton of worms.”

  “What about the hook? He could—”

  “Sweetie,
he’ll be fine.” Andrew kissed his wife on the cheek. “I’ll put the worm on the hook for him, I’ll make sure he keeps his life jacket on the whole time. He’s going to have a ball.”

  “I don’t want a ball. I want to see fish.” Tommy trudged down the stairs in a striped t-shirt and jeans, his wide moon face in a determined grin under his Detroit Tigers baseball cap. A Boy Scout knapsack, insignia faded, weighed down his left shoulder; his soft, stocky body canted in compensation.

  “Hey, Buddy,” said Andrew. He reached up and swung the boy off the last two steps. “We’re going to see fish, all right. You about ready to go?”

  Tommy nodded several times. “I packed my backsack with everything.” He bent over and lifted the flap. “I have my toothbrush and a dime and my lib’ary book and three pens and two green socks.” He looked at his mother. “My feet could get wet. I don’t like that.”

  “That’s very good planning,” she said.

  “I know. And I have my radio and some Lifesavers and a banana in case of Amy or David get hungry.”

  Andrew laughed. “And here I thought it was just going to be the two of us. Are all twenty-six of your invisible friends coming along?”

  “Daddy.” Tommy put his hands on his hips and rolled his eyes. “They won’t all fit in there. Just Amy, Cathy, David, Edie, and Frank.” He thought for a minute. “And Xner, Yackie, and Zelda, because sometimes they don’t get a turn. They’re at the end. Brian can not come. He was bad again, so he is locked in his room all day with no food.”

  “Pretty stiff punishment.”

  “He was bad.” Tommy pushed the flap of the knapsack closed. “Can we go now?”

  “As soon as we get our lunch out of the icebox, we’re on the road.”

  “I get baloney with mustard and no—pickles.” He stuck out his tongue.

  “Absolutely. And Fritos and Hostess cupcakes,” his mother said. “Coca-Cola in the green bottles. I know what my fellas like.” She lifted up the bill of his cap and kissed his dark hair. “Have a great time, little man. I’ll miss you.”

  “I’m going to see fish.” Tommy tugged his cap back into place and picked up his knapsack, slinging it almost over his shoulder. He headed for the garage.