The Categorical Universe of Candice Phee (10 page)

I stood for a moment in the doorway, watching the lights flash and the symbols scroll down the page, before I tapped him on the shoulder. He turned and lifted one headphone away from an ear.

“Dad,” I said. “I have made dinner.”

He removed his headphones entirely and swiveled in his chair to face me. It was difficult to read his expression, but “puzzled” would certainly come close.

“You've done what?” he said.

I didn't think I had been vague, but obviously I needed to explain.

“I've made dinner,” I said.

“Why?”

“So we could eat it.”

“But I've eaten. Spaghetti and meatballs. I left a covered plate for you in the microwave.”

“Thanks. I'll put it in the fridge. Or maybe the trash. The food, not the microwave. Then you'll eat
my
food.”

“Why?”

The way this conversation was going, we'd be here at eleven o'clock with the jambalaya a blackened mess stuck to the bottom of the pot. I decided I would have to confide in him.

“I've cooked a special meal for Mum,” I said. “To cheer her up. I bought all the ingredients and spent three hours cooking her favorite dish.” (I exaggerated slightly, but the situation called for it.) “I thought it would be nice if, for once, we ate together as a family. Please, Dad? Your computer isn't going anywhere.”
As opposed to this family, which is disappearing down the toilet
, I thought. I was going to keep this to myself, but then reconsidered. “As opposed to this family, which is disappearing down the toilet,” I added.

“Your mum's in bed,” said Dad. “Does she know about this?”

“Not exactly,” I replied.

“Not exactly?”

“Well, not even not approximately,” I confessed. “She has no idea. But I'm just about to wake her. It would be helpful if I could say we are both waiting around the dinner table.”

“We have a dinner table?”

“It is square, made of wood, and has chairs around it.”

Dad pretended to think things over, but we both knew he didn't have a choice. He sighed, clicked something on his computer, and put the headphones on the desk. He got to his feet with the air of someone wearied by life and burdened by worries. Dad is tall, thin, and permanently stooped, probably from spending his entire life leaning forward and peering at a computer screen. If he had a hooked nose he'd look
exactly
like a vulture, but he doesn't, so he doesn't.

“I hope you can wake your mum,” he said. “She's been very tired recently.”

“I'll manage,” I said. “Now, if you could just put this string of onions around your neck . . .”

“I'm sorry?”

“No need to apologize.”

“A string of onions?”

“Yes. And this beret on your head, preferably at a jaunty angle. Plus, it would be helpful if you could manage the majority of the dinner conversation in French.”

“I'm sorry?”

“There you go again. Here is a list of French phrases, with indications of correct pronunciation. This should help you deal with most topics of conversation. Of course, it goes without saying that these should be accompanied with shrugs of the shoulder and the occasional ‘
Sacré bleu
.' ”

Dad seemed on the verge of making a remark (possibly to apologize once more), but thought better of it. He put
the string of onions round his neck (do you have any idea how difficult it is to thread onions together?) and glanced at the list I'd prepared at lunchtime with the help of the library's English–French dictionary. I'd enjoyed that dictionary. It wasn't as easy to understand as the English one, but much more romantic.

Dad loped off to sit at the dinner table. I stirred the jambalaya, put the stereo on low, and went to knock on Mum's bedroom door.

It took time to rouse her, but eventually she sat up in bed with tousled hair and a matching expression.

“What is it, Pumpkin?” she said.

“
Il est
dinnertime,
je pense
,” I replied. I'd looked up the French for “dinner,” but had forgotten it. (
Déjeuner
? Or was that lunch?) I had to accept that fluent French was beyond Dad and Mum and me and that the occasional English word would have to substitute.

“I'm sorry?” she replied. I had never received so many apologies in such a short time.

“I've made dinner,” I said. “Dad is sitting at the table and all we need is you. I cooked jambalaya.
Votre
favorite.” I strung out the last syllable of
favorite
so it would sound French, but I think it came out more like Mexican.

Mum, obviously puzzled, swung her legs out of bed and pulled on her robe. It was not formal wear, but I wasn't going to push my luck. I decided against giving her a beret on the grounds there would be a clash of styles. She put a hand against her eyes and shuffled out the door.

Dad cut a dashing figure with his string of onions and the beret. Mum took one look at him and stifled a laugh.

“What is going on?” she asked.

“A French-themed
déjeuner
,” I said, putting on my own beret and necklace of onions. Actually, they were incredibly powerful. The onions, not the berets. I worried that Dad and I would spend the evening crying softly into our jambalaya, but it was worth the risk.

I lit candles and turned up the volume on the stereo. A plaintive saxophone swirled through the air. Well, actually it didn't. That could only happen in a Harry Potter movie. The
sound
of a plaintive saxophone swirled through the air.

“What have you done to your hands?” asked Mum.

“The latest in oven gloves,” I replied. I opened a bottle of wine and poured glasses for Mum and Dad. I'd found the wine at the back of the fridge. Once upon a time my parents would sit in the back garden and share a bottle. That was so long ago I wasn't sure it was a genuine memory. I worried the wine might be off. I had an image of Mum and Dad kneeling side by side and retching down the same toilet, but then I thought if anything was going to do that it would be my cooking.

“But before we eat,” I said, “
voulez-vous dancer avec moi
, Papa?”

“I'm sorry?” said Dad.

“That has been established. Would you like to dance with me?”

“I can't dance,” he said with the conviction of a career computer geek.

“Then now is the time to learn.” I stood and held out my arms. Mum giggled. For a moment I couldn't place the sound because it was so unfamiliar. I hadn't heard her laugh in years.

Dad got to his feet. Even he was smiling. He took my arms and we shuffled around the floor for a minute. My head was buried in his stomach. In a world's worst dancer competition, it would have been a close-run thing whether he would have scored first place or me. Four left feet moved without any sense of timing.

“Giant steps, Dad?” I asked.

He groaned. When I was little I used to stand on his feet and he'd lurch around while I screamed with laughter. I'm heavier now, but I'm not what you would call a fatso.

I slipped off my shoes and stood on his insteps and we swayed drunkenly around the dining room. At least we had reduced the left feet by fifty percent. Mum laughed and clapped as the song finished and we shuddered to a halt.

“
Merci bien
,” I said.

“I'm sorry?” said Dad.

“
Papa! Parle français!
”

“Oh, yes.” He dug the piece of paper I gave him out of his pocket and looked it over. His brow scrunched up in concentration.

“
Votre grenouille a mangé mon déjeuner
,” he said.

“
Bien sûr
,” I replied.

“What does that mean, anyway?” Dad said.

“ ‘Your frog has eaten my dinner.' Or it might be lunch. A useful phrase, I'm sure you will agree.”

Mum's giggles increased to the extent she was choking. I turned toward her, but she waved me away with a hand.

“Enough,” I said. “It is time for dinner.
Asseyez, s'il vous plaît
.” To assist them with comprehension, I sat at the table and indicated they should do the same.

The jambalaya looked like the recent contents of the bucket on Rich Uncle Brian's yacht. It didn't smell quite as bad, however, so I served it up. I placed brimming plates in front of Mum and Dad with what I hoped was panache (another French word!).

Dad gazed at the food as if confronted with roadkill. He poked the jambalaya with a fork, possibly to establish if it was still alive.

“What's in it, Candice?” he asked.

“Chicken, smoked sausage, onions, peppers, tomatoes, prawns, chicken stock, and rice,” I replied. “Though not necessarily in that order.”

“You didn't peel the prawns before cooking them?” “The recipe said to devein them, but I am not skilled at microcosmetic surgery, so I didn't. Should they be peeled?”

“It's lovely, Pumpkin,” said Mum. She took a mouthful and chewed slowly. One of
her
veins stood out on her forehead. “Such an unusual taste! Where's your plate?”

“After all that cooking, I'm not hungry,” I said.

I think Dad mumbled something about that being wise, but I could be mistaken. I put another jazz CD on and watched them eat. It was strange, but when they finished there seemed to be more on their plates than I'd served in the first place.

“Delicious,” said Mum.

“Beautiful,” said Dad.

“What made you choose this dish, Pumpkin?” asked Mum.

“New Orleans,” I said. “I remembered you said you wanted to see it before you died. The jazz, the French Quarter, the jambalaya and the gumbo, the saxophones on street corners. Do you remember?”

Mum's eyes clouded and a smile played around her lips.

“I'd almost forgotten,” she said. “Yes. The dreams. The dreams I had when I was young.”

“It wasn't when you were young,” I replied. “It was only a few years back.”

“Thanks,” she said.

“Anyway,” I continued, “they don't have to remain dreams.”

“You are kind, Pumpkin,” said Mum. “And I am very proud of you. Thank you.”

“French,” I said.

“
Merci
,” she said.

I washed the dishes and when I came back into the dining room, I discovered a small miracle. Mum and Dad were dancing. He had his arms around her waist and they
swayed gently to a slow rhythm. Her head was pressed against his chest. Their eyes were closed, but their lips were smiling. I watched for a few moments and then Mum opened her eyes and looked straight at me. Her eyes were smiling as well.

Dear Denille
,

I have learned a lesson
.

I learned it from Miss Bamford, my English teacher, which, on the face of it, is not surprising. But I am not talking about spelling, punctuation, and grammatical structure. I am talking about language, laughter, and life. Let me tell you what happened
. . . .

Actually, I won't, if it's all the same to you. I have just written it down for an English assignment and I am tired and can't face repeating myself. So I'll cut to the chase (you won't need reminding that I am making considerable efforts with American idioms)
.

I made people laugh today and it was wonderful. I didn't intend to. In fact, it wasn't part of my thinking at all. All I wanted was to make the people in my life a little happier, but for some reason they found my actions funny
.

I am
not,
Denille, a funny person by nature
.

I cannot tell jokes
.

I would not win any talent contests for humor. Actually, I wouldn't win any talent contests for anything
.

Let me give you an example of how my mind works when it comes to humor. Miss Bamford, my English teacher, she of the independently gyrating eyeball, once quoted something to my class. We were doing silent reading and had to bring along our own books (I brought my dictionary) and she said that someone (an American, I believe) had remarked that “Outside of a dog, a book is a man's best friend. Inside a dog, it's too dark to read.” She laughed in an uproarious fashion. I understood how the joke operates (it's the two meanings of the word
outside—
literally on the outside of something, and “apart from” or “excluding”)
.

But some things about the joke bothered me. I would have put my hand up to ask her, but that would have taken too long, so I did what I always do under these circumstances. I ripped out a sheet of paper and began to write
.

Dear Miss Bamford,

I understand the joke and think it is a clever play on words, but I have a few questions. How did someone get inside a dog in the first place? It seems a physical impossibility. Furthermore, if one accepts that it is possible (which I doubt) then the circumstances of the ingestion would be important.