The Silenced Tale, стр. 21
“Be nice, or I’ll make the elite status of your travel points mysteriously disappear,” Forsyth warns, but there’s a glimmer of humor in his tone. “Really beleaguer me, and I’ll put you on the no-fly list for the summer.”
“You wouldn’t!” Elgar gasps. “I have four cons! There’s no way I’m doing that by train!”
Forsyth chuckles darkly, and it’s a surprisingly evil laugh for such a good man.
“So, um . . . frog princes?” Elgar says lamely, when the silence between them has gotten a little too telling. Alis has moved on to banging something soft against the floor, punctuated by a plastic click. It must be Library, being used like a drumstick, the plushie’s eyes snapping on the floor.
“Ah, we are at the ‘pretending’ stage of development, my app tells me,” Forsyth says. “Alis is remarkably advanced when it comes to her language skills, but she has just now begun the important task of equating objects with their uses and playing make-believe. Ladyling Alis styled her mama’s hair yesterday with the soft paddle brush. Didn’t she? Yes, she did.”
“Ma!” Alis says, imperious.
“Mama is at work, sweeting,” Forsyth replies. “It’s Da and Alis time right now.”
“Gar Gar!”
“Yes, and Elgar as well. I suppose we’re going to have to pick an honorific for you soon. Uncle?”
Elgar chuckles. “As long as Gar Gar doesn’t become Jar Jar, I’m cool,” he says. Secretly, he’s hoping for “Grandpa.” He tries to coach Alis into it whenever her parents leave them alone together, but that isn’t often. And so far, Alis has gotten stalled on the G of the word, because it sounds like the second syllable of his name. But, as Forsyth said, Alis is terribly clever when it comes to speech. Elgar’s sure she’ll get it soon.
“We’ll work on it the next time you are able to—sweeting!” Forsyth calls, his voice suddenly across the room. “Please do not attempt to scale the stove. Writer, my heart.” Elgar’s own heart skips a beat, the way it does every time Forsyth utters that particular oath. Footsteps come closer to the phone. “I’m afraid this small monkey and I must bid you adieu, Elgar. Time for the park, I think, my dearest, where there are things to climb safely. She grows more like her Uncle Kintyre every day. I am certain I will expire of a stroke before her second birthday.”
“Please don’t,” Elgar says, trying for lightness, but the desperate fear he feels at the thought of a world without Forsyth in it creeps into his tone. He gulps hard, swallowing back the honesty of the knee-jerk reaction a second time.
“Oh. Elgar. Please. Have no fear. I’m not going anywhere.”
“You better not,” Elgar grumbles, aiming for theatrical and perhaps coming across as more pouty than he wants. “If you go back into the books again, I’m going with you. You can’t leave me here alone.”
A soft gasp on the other side of the line makes it clear that he’s hit maybe too close to the center of both of their secret fears.
“It is a promise,” Forsyth says softly.
“Okay.”
“Okay. Ah, wiggly glow-worm, hold still. Da will put you in your boots, and we shall go look for frogs before your birthday party. What do you say?”
“’Isses ’isses!” Alis demands.
“Perhaps not these particular frogs, sweeting,” Forsyth cajoles.
“Birthday party?” Elgar asks, trying not to be hurt when he realizes that he hasn’t been invited.
“It’s all Pip’s family and her parents’ friends,” Forsyth says. “Something big and Chinese. I’m not entirely certain. Ah. No worries. We have plans for cake and whatnot the next time you are up. We will not be excluding you from the celebrations.”
“No, no. I know that,” Elgar says, maybe more to remind himself than to reassure Forsyth.
“Wai po has some very specific ideas of how today is meant to go,” Forsyth huffs, and it’s the first time Elgar’s ever heard him even hint at being impatient with the cross-cultural strain in their family. “But when you are next here, we will be celebrating Ladyling Alis’s first birthday in true Hainish fashion.”
“Oh!” Elgar says, suddenly delighted by the thought. “The stars thing?”
“The stars thing,” Forsyth agrees smugly.
Elgar takes a deep breath and lets the excitement of that promised day overwrite his anxiety. “All right, I’ll let you go. Thanks for, uh, you know . . . talking me down,” Elgar says. “For being there, you know?”
“Any time,” Forsyth says, and it’s clear he’s distracted by boots and a baby.
“Right, bye. Bye, Alis!”
“Bye, bye, bye!” Alis shouts back, and then Elgar ends the call.
“Well,” Elgar says, setting down his phone, and stretching out along the sofa. Linux digs his claws in lightly as his pillow readjusts, then curls into a kitty-spiral on Elgar’s chest. “Maybe everyone’s right, and all I need is some sleep. What do you say, bud? Nap time, Linux?”
Linux purrs his agreement.
Forsyth
Standing in the park later, hands in my pockets and face turned up to the watery sun, I sigh and rub my forehead. I can hear my own mother’s voice in my memories, telling me not to wrinkle my face so, for it may remain that way should the wind change direction.
I cannot help the chuckle that escapes at the memory. Alis splashes gamely in a small mud puddle formed in the divot under the teeter-totter, utterly unconcerned with her da’s clear distress.
“Liar,” I call myself. “Nothing to worry about, indeed.”
While Alis busies herself with toddling in circles around the play sets, I poke at my phone, and take a moment to update Finnar with expanded parameters: Magically spoiled salads. Men in black. Diner waitresses with the wrong color eyes.
Chapter 4 Elgar
The rest of the day is dedicated firmly to the sin of sloth. Elgar naps, orders in Chinese, marathons a few episodes of a sci-fi show