Lor Mandela - Destruction from Twins (23 page)

After a few seconds, Dr. Brockman cautiously
peeked out through his fingers to see if the coast was clear, and
then lowered onto one of the garage sale chairs and ran his hand
through his sandy blonde hair. “How does this happen?” he sighed.
“How do I get myself roped into these things?”

Just then, the sound of a
sickly car engine sputtered outside the storm door, making a
loud
clunk
as it
came to a stop. The sound was followed by the unpleasant screech of
the driver’s door swinging open, and the equally unpleasant screech
of it swinging back shut.

A frantic-looking, floppy-haired man in his
early forties raced up to the door. In his hands he carried a
disheveled pile of papers and an old black brief case that looked
to have mustard stains splattered across it. He made a spastic
effort to push the door latch with his elbow, but when that failed,
he angrily kicked the door open with his foot.

“Where is she?” he asked, dropping three or
four papers onto the black and white tile floor as he tripped
across the threshold. “Where is my daughter, the felon?”

“Now, just relax, Nathan,” answered Dr.
Brockman. “She’s upstairs getting dried off and dressed.” He took
the papers and briefcase from his friend, and motioned for him to
sit down.

Nathan smoothed the front of his orange
plaid shirt and ignored Doc’s invitation to sit. Instead, he
anxiously circled the kitchen table. “This is the last straw, Paul.
Her with her ‘boring this’ and ‘dinky that’! There are plenty of
fun things to do in Glenhill, ya know? Things that don’t involve
trespassing and nudity—but nooo! Let’s just frolic around like . .
. like . . . like naked nudists!”

“Oh c’mon, Nate,” the
doctor replied. “Don’t be too hard on her. She’s pretty
embarrassed
. Besides, she’s
already had an earful from me.”

“Well,” Nathan sneered and glared at the
ceiling, “that means she still has another ear to be filled.”

“Wh . . . what?” gulped Dr. Brockman,
choking on a chuckle. “Did you hear what you just said?” Nathan
stared blankly at him for a moment and sniggered; then they both
erupted into full-fledged laughter.

Maggie, who was now clothed in faded blue
jeans and a dark plum t-shirt, sat on the edge of her bed upstairs
listening to the raucous guffawing that permeated the floor and
walls of the old house. “Unbelievable,” she breathed, “what a
couple of dorks.” She stood and walked over to the open window and
looked out past the gnarled maple tree that grew near the house.
“And they say I have mood swings!”

Just then, a whisper—louder than was
needed—hissed out from behind the maple’s massive trunk. “Maggs . .
. pssst! Maggs!”

“Bridge?” Maggie answered. “Shhh!”

A tall, willowy blonde with gleaming brown
eyes and a mouth full of braces peered out around the tree. “Get
down here. I have something to tell you,” she whispered, once again
more than a little too loudly.

“Bridgette! Honestly. You whisper louder
than most people talk!”

Maggie could still hear her dad and Dr.
Brockman talking and snickering downstairs. She glanced over her
shoulder to make sure her door was shut, and then climbed out onto
a large branch that hugged the house just below her window.

Skillfully, she scooted across the length of
the branch and alongside the rickety old tree house that her
non-mechanically inclined father built for her when she was seven.
The only structurally sound part of the crooked little house was a
chain ladder he had purchased ready-made. Maggie scaled down the
ladder and, skipping the bottom rung, dropped to the ground in
front of Bridgette.

“Hiya!” Bridgette beamed and gave her a hug
and a playful peck on the cheek. “So, how long you in for?”

“Don’t know yet,” answered Maggie. “He’s in
the kitchen talking to Doc about his criminal daughter and laughing
it up over her naked nudity.”

Bridgette’s eyes lit up. “Doc’s still here?”
she asked. “Oh, that’s good. He always takes your side.”

Maggie frowned. “The only reason it’s good
that Doc’s still here is because you think he’s cute. And besides,
I’ll have you know, it sounded like he was taking Lorrine’s
side—not mine.”

“Ewww! I do
not
think Doc is cute!”
Bridgette retorted. “He’s ancient! Maybe he’s cute for my mom, or
my grandma, but not . . . oh, wait! Lorrine! That’s why I came
over. Lorrine wasn’t the one who snitched!”

“Huh?” Maggie asked, “Whatta you mean? Who
else could it have been?”

Bridgette explained.
“Well, I heard that
totally hot
cop—the one who helped you out of the pond . . .”
Maggie blushed violently, “. . . tell my mom that a realtor from
Cedar Rapids brought a couple of investor guys from Georgia to look
at the house. They’re the ones who saw us. Apparently one of the
suits saw more than he bargained for and called the
cops.”

Maggie blushed violently, again.

“So we can’t be mad at Lor . . . .”

Before Bridgette was able to finish,
Nathan’s voice rang out from around the back of the house.
“Margaret Amanda Baker, come down here! Now!”

Maggie reacted quickly and began a rapid
ascent of the chain ladder. “See ya at school Monday, Bridge,” she
called back quietly.

Doc poked his head around the corner of the
house and whispered, “Hurry up! I’ll try to stall.”

Bridgette giggled and batted her lashes.

“Ancient, huh?” groaned Maggie, who was
already working her way across the big branch.

The doctor paid no attention to either of
the girls, but instead turned and rushed back into the house.

Bridgette grinned in his direction as he
darted out of sight. “Bye,” she mumbled, waving an airy hand toward
Maggie while staring dreamily at where the doctor had been.

Maggie nimbly slipped through the window and
ran to her dresser. She grabbed her MP3 player from the top drawer,
crammed the earphones into her ears, and dove for her bed—landing
not two seconds before her dad stormed into the room.

“Dad?” she sat up and looked at him in
faux-surprise while she tugged the earphone from one ear. “Did you
knock?”

“No,” he replied, “I was calling for you to
come downstairs.”

She motioned toward the earphone that was
dangling at her chest and shrugged. “Sorry, couldn’t hear ya.”

“Well, can you hear me now?” he barked,
placing both fists angrily onto his hips.

“Yes, Daddy,” she replied, “but are you sure
you want to talk about this now? You seem upset.” The words had no
sooner left her lips when she realized she probably shouldn’t have
said them.

Nathan’s eyes bulged in their sockets and
the possibility of steam hissing from his ears seemed to increase
by the second, but then suddenly, and much to Maggie’s surprise, he
appeared to calm down.

“No,” he began in a
subdued tone, “I’m not upset. I’m confused.” He started pacing back
and forth in front of Maggie. “I’m confused because I seem to
remember a certain young lady dragging me into The Edge Boutique in
Glenhill Galleria to show me this
adorable
little swimsuit that she
absolutely had to have. I also remember telling this young lady
that there was no way on this green Earth that I was
gonna spend sixty-four dollars on a swimsuit. But,” he
continued, “this particular young lady looked at me with big, blue,
puppy dog eyes, and pouted and whined until finally, I gave
in.”

He stopped pacing and looked at Maggie who
was doing her best to appear guilty.

“Evidently . . . since you
prefer to swim without a suit . . .
this
was money ill-spent!
” His tone was no
longer calm and subdued.

“Dad, I . . . .”

“No, Maggie! I really don’t wanna hear it!
The way I see it, you owe me sixty-four dollars plus tax, and you
will earn this by spending the next four Saturday afternoons
cleaning Mr. Pratt’s office for him.”

“Dad, you’re being ridiculous!” she
protested. “I’m supposed to go to Omaha with Bridgette next
weekend, and my birthday’s the Saturday after that! Why can’t you
just ground me like a normal parent?”

Nathan smirked triumphantly. “Because I know
what gets to you, Smaggs, and grounding usually aint it! Besides,
I’m not a normal parent.”

“Oh, you can say that again,” she groaned as
she slumped down onto her bed.

Nathan sat down next to her. “Ya know,
Smaggs. What you did could’ve been dangerous. What if some sicko
woulda seen you—or what if the boys from school get wind of this?
You’ll never live it down.”

“Boys from school?” Maggie smirked. “The
opinions of twelve nerds, twenty-five dumb jocks, and six druggies
don’t really matter, Dad. Besides, I’ve known them all since we
were little. None of them would dare harass me . . . not with the
dirt I could dish out.”

Nathan just looked at her and shook his
head. “Just promise me you won’t do anything like this again,” he
pleaded. “I’m not a huge fan of being called home early from work
by the Glenhill PD.”

“Fine,” Maggie moaned.

He held out a hand and helped her to her
feet. “Alright then. C’mon. I’ve gotta get Doc to the airport.”

Downstairs, Doctor Brockman was sprawled out
on the big, brown, living room sofa watching TV, but sat up and
clicked off the television when he saw them coming. Three tan
hound's-tooth bags sat on the floor near his feet. “We all good
now?” he asked smiling.

“Yeah, we’re good.” Maggie
looked at her dad and nodded. “I just came down for a Doc Brock hug
to tide me over ‘til next time. You
are
coming back for my birthday,
aren’t you?”

“Of course, Boodle! I wouldn't miss it,” he
replied as he wrapped his arms around her and lifted her off the
ground. “Oh, hey, that reminds me. What would Madame like for big
number one-seven?”

“Well,” she answered coyly, “maybe a
diamond, or a hot little sports car, or a private jet. Ya know . .
. teenager stuff.”

“Hmm,” Dr. Brockman played along. “I was
thinking just a small gift this year. Like a yacht or a Caribbean
island or something.”

“Oh, I understand, money's a little tight,”
she giggled. “Well, I s’pose that'll have to do.”

She leaned forward, and pretended to kiss
him on the cheek, but instead whispered, “Thanks for calming down
the accountant.”

Dr. Brockman gave her another quick squeeze.
As he and Nathan picked up the suitcases and headed for the front
door, he called back, “Anything for the Mistress of Mediocre.”

Maggie smiled and followed them as far as
the porch, waving as they drove away toward the Des Moines
International Airport. A twinge of disappointment floated through
her, as it usually did whenever Doc left. She viewed his visits as
a much-needed break from the endless monotony that was her
life.

True, he wasn’t some rich, famous tycoon
from an exotic locale, but he had managed to gain some notoriety in
his profession, and was from the most populous city in Connecticut,
which gave their dear family friend an air of glamour in Maggie’s
eyes.

She sighed and slouched back into the house,
anticipating the inevitable return to what she called “small town
stale-ity”—and stale it was.

The following week was even more boring than
usual. Bridgette had been grounded for the escapade at the pond, so
beyond going to school, Maggie barely left the house.

By the time Saturday finally rolled around,
she was actually looking forward to her cleaning punishment at Mr.
Pratt’s office.

The job probably should
have only taken about two hours, but Maggie dragged it out to
three. It was early afternoon when she arrived home, and had just
begun
sifting through a pile of mail in
the kitchen, when Nathan’s cell phone buzzed on the
counter.

“
Yikes,” she complained,
picking it up and checking the caller ID, “when will he learn that
he can take this thing with him?

“Daaaa-aaaad!” she yelled out into the
backyard where Nathan was mowing the lawn. “Doc's on the
phone!”

Nathan hollered back over the roar of the
mower, “Okay, honey, I'll be there in just a sec.”

She flipped the phone open and answered it
cheerfully. “Hey, Doc. What’s new?”

His reply was short and uncharacteristically
serious. “Boo, I need to talk to your dad. It’s important.”

“Er, yeah . . . okay,” she answered, “he’ll
be here in just a . . . oh wait, here he is.”

Nathan came through the old storm door. He
was covered in grass clippings and patches of dirt, and his
straight black hair was matted to the sides of his head with sweat.
He smiled exhaustedly at Maggie and reached out for the phone.

She handed it to him with a perplexed look
on her face, shrugged her shoulders and then ducked out into the
living room.

“Paul, muh-man!” greeted Nathan as he
brushed a bead of sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.
“Whaz up?”

“Nathan? Are you okay? I mean . . . how are
the two of you doing?” Doc asked. His voice was strangely intense
and urgent. “Are you all right? Is Maggie all right?”

“Yeahhh,” Nathan answered slowly, “shouldn't
we be?”

“You’re sure there's nothing wrong?”

“Um, Paul, what’s going on?” Nathan quizzed.
There was something disturbing about the way his friend was
interrogating him. “We're just fine. Why are you acting so . . .
er, bothered?”

Doc’s voice softened a bit. “Good . . .
good,” he sighed, “I'm glad to hear it. I know this sounds nuts,
but I just had a feeling that something was wrong.”

“You had a feeling? Yeah, that does sound
nuts.”