Patrick Griffin's Last Breakfast on Earth (24 page)

“But,” said Patrick, not minding her giving him attention like this but still really not liking the idea of having makeup on his face. “Umm, maybe we can come up with another reason for us to be here, like—”

“Like
what—this
?” asked Oma, leaning forward and kissing him on the mouth. Her lips were very soft. And smooth. And, beyond his ability to tell that much, they seemed to have the power to stop his mind from working.

Fortunately, the awkwardness of the moment was diffused as a sky-car thundered overhead, hovering a moment as Oma rubbed some cool red gloss across his recently kissed lips. Then it rocketed back the way it had come.

 

CHAPTER 38

Youthful Followings

BunBun looked back and forth from his binky to the words he'd just written on the halfway hut's big white message board,

If civilization were acne, the other planets would tease Earth.

—Rex A. [BCP§421¶43]

He supposed it was one of the more cryptic Commonplace sayings, but cryptic was good, at least if it provoked any degree of curiosity, and questions, in whoever found it.

He was just lowering the marker when laughter burst out behind him and he turned to see that the four youngsters—rather than returning home—had apparently decided to follow him.

“Deer rabbit!!!”

BunBun was torn. He had plenty of time for another chat, but it would be highly unsafe for them to be seen with him. Still, it would be rude to just run off. He smiled gamely and began to wave back but his binky-watch chirped.

“Oh no, oh no, oh no!” he said, looking down at the screen.

The device was informing him of a Deacon-protocol transmission—and from only a kilometer away! His rabbity eyes nearly bugged out of his head as he considered what to do. The innocent children's safety was paramount.

“Deer rabbit—are you still going to New York City?” asked Paul Griffin.

“Deer rabbit—what did you write on that board?” asked Phoebe Tondorf-Schnittman.

“Deer rabbit—did you use
my
markers?” asked Chloe Tondorf-Schnittman.

“Children,” said BunBun, thinking quickly. If Rex and his killer Deacons were on their way, there was no time to spare. “I'll answer all your questions later. But only after we have a sand castle competition. Do you know how to build sand castles?”

The answer was a very enthusiastic yes.

 

CHAPTER 39

Attitudes on Gratitude

“Nantucket beach scene, half a dunt before sunset!” announced Mrs. Puber as she bustled into the dining room. The room's walls and ceiling changed to an open, airy view of a sandy beach and grass-stubbled dunes. Overhead, gulls wheeled and cried in the slanting sunlight.

“Let's eat while everything's still warm,” she continued. “Tell me, Patrick—on Earth, does your family give thanks before dinner?”

“Um, yes,” said Patrick. “We do.”

“Would you like to do so for us now?”

“Well—” Patrick said, as a blessing from Bible camp popped into his head:

Fruit us

Bread us

Rice us

Cheese us

Let us thank thee

Loving Jesus

But he couldn't see himself saying it out loud. He wondered was this a test of some kind? Did they really want him to say grace? Hadn't Kempton said they didn't have religion here? Did Mrs. Puber just want to see for herself if he really believed in God and Jesus?

“Um, actually, I'd rather not,” he said. “I mean, not without my family here.”

“You poor dear,” said Mrs. Puber, her face scrunching up with pity. “
Without your family
—how you must miss them!”

“Of course, of course—we didn't mean to put you on the spot like that, son,” said Mr. Puber. “We just wanted to give you the opportunity—”

“Oma,” interrupted Mrs. Puber, “why don't
you
give the appreciation tonight.”

“Aw, Mother!” said Kempton.

“Quiet, Kempton,” said Mr. Puber. “You say it every night, Oma needs to say it sometimes, too.”

“It's okay by me if Kempton—” Oma began.

Her mother cut her off. “Oma. The gratitude. Now.”

Oma took a deep breath and inclined her head.

“With profoundest appreciation, we bow our heads and offer thanks for the Minder's will, which has enabled this bountiful moment. Illuminated by the vision of the Seer and informed by the ingenuity of the Deacons, the implementational expertise of the departmental superattendants, and the executional adeptness of all our smees, deputies, admins, and subalterns, we affirm our supreme gratitude to the nurturing, life-sustaining, and joy-bringing order that has been set before us.”

“Affirmed,” said the family.

Patrick was about to ask what a smee was but caught an eye roll and brief smile from Oma and lost track of the thought.

“Nicely articulated, Oma,” said Mr. Puber.

“Yes, it certainly is nice to see
some
evidence of your top-decile scores,” said Mrs. Puber, sighing as she took a dollop of sanitizing gel.

“Oma,” said Mr. Puber, “had top scores in her communications class this yie.”

“Yeah, I'm sure Patrick knows all about that since he had to spend a whole bunch of the afternoon with her braggy self,” said Kempton.

“Um, that would be you, Kempton, who talks about himself all day long,” replied Oma.

“Okay, so what
did
you guys talk about all afternoon?” said Kempton.

“Mostly how proud we all are about how you get by despite your chronic
mustela nervosa
.”

“What's
mustela nervosa
 … wait.
Mother!
—she's calling me a
weasel
again!”

“Never mind them, Patrick,” said Mrs. Puber, blotting her lips with her red napkin, “they're just going through a tough socio-developmental phase right now. The counselor tells us it will pass. Do I understand you have a sister, too, Patrick?”

“Yeah, four,” said Patrick.

“She's four yies old? What a wonderful age.”

“Actually, Cassie is four. She's twins with Paul. But I was meaning to say I have four sisters.”

“Bu-u—what?!” exclaimed Mr. Puber.

“Did you say
four
sisters, dear?” asked Mrs. Puber.

“FOUR SISTERS!?” exclaimed Kempton, nearly dropping his sanitizer pump. “And who's
Paul
?”

Oma shook her head sympathetically and perhaps, it seemed to Patrick, to indicate that he shouldn't be so quick to answer their questions.

“And—and—you have
brothers
, too?” said Mrs. Puber.

“Just two. Neil and Paul, Cassie's twin.”

“THERE ARE SEVEN CHILDREN IN YOUR HOUSEHOLD!?” asked Kempton.

“Nice arithmetic, Kempton,” said Oma, clapping.

“Are you a conjoined family?” asked Mr. Puber.

“Sorry?” asked Patrick.

“Do you have more than one set of parents living in the same, um, domicile? Or are any of the children adopted from families whose parents were unsuited for child rearing or are deceased or—”

“No, we're all my two parents' kids,” said Patrick, wondering if that was the best way to say it. It seemed an odd thing to have to explain in the first place.

The kitchen door slid open and a wire basket on four rubber-tipped legs stalked up alongside Mrs. Puber. She placed her red predinner napkin inside and it moved to Kempton.

“Families here on Ith only have two children,” said Oma. “It's the
law
.”

“Ahem,” said Mr. Puber, “yes, the human population on Ith has been at its optimal level for nearly two decades, so parents, except in rare cases of municipal-level shortfall … Occasionally a family will have three if there's been a nearby case of infertility, accident, or—”

“Oh,” said Patrick, still having some trouble adjusting to using scissors and tongs. Kempton had laughed at the notion of forks and knives. Apparently scissors and tongs are far more efficient and, as Mrs. Puber pointed out, less likely to scratch the plates. “I think China's like that back on Earth.”

“China, ah,” said Mr. Puber dubiously. “So, umm, your family is so large because Earth has become underpopulated?”

“No,” said Patrick, looking down as the automated basket strode up next to him. “I mean, maybe in some places, but I think actually it's the other way around. Like, we were just learning in social studies that 350,000 people are born every day, and only 150,000 die every day, so that means we're—”

“TWO HUNDRED THOUSAND NET GAIN IN POPULATION A DAY!” exclaimed Kempton.

“Excellent math skills again, Kempton. Gold star,” said Oma.

“But that must mean,” said Mr. Puber, “with a birth rate that high, your overall population is at—”

“I think we're about to hit eight billion.”

Mr. Puber put his sanitizer pump back on the table without having given himself any.

“Are you making a joke?”

Patrick shook his head. “No, sir.”

“But, Rex told us,” he spluttered, “I mean, according to the Minder's plan—there are supposed to be
101 million
Earthlings … this would be almost an 8,000 percent discrepancy!”

“Why don't you have something to eat, dear?” said Mrs. Puber to Mr. Puber.

“But I should immediately text the—”

“Stay right there in your chair and let's have dinner as is proper—
without accessing the Interverse
.”

“But, Mother,” said Kempton, “this is huge!”

“Kempton, we were told to feed Patrick Griffin dinner, and we do not
ever
break etiquette in this family, much less
at mealtime
. The house is not on fire, abominations are not at the door. And, as the Commission on Family Values has long recommended, there will be
no binkies at the table.
”

“Nicely put, Mother,” said Oma.

“And I want no more speaking of population mandates or politics or any kind of scientific theories. We are a
normal
family and, even if we have an
extraordinary
guest, we are going to have
normal
conversation.”

Mr. Puber and Kempton both fidgeted like schoolboys but nodded their acquiescence.

“Did we get rutabaga compote?” asked Mr. Puber, waving his tongs excitedly.

“Yes, dear,” said Mrs. Puber. “It's coming.”

Patrick recalled that Oma had said they were getting “picked up” at seven and figured it had to be close to that late already.

“So,” Mrs. Puber continued, looking brightly around the table. “Tell us about your days, children. Was the weather okay at Lasters? I was so concerned it was going to rain, what with this horrible storm coming. Did you see those awful clouds this morning?”

“Mother, the forecast
said
it wasn't going to get here till this evening,” said Kempton. “You
know
the Meteorology Bureau is
99.8 percent
accurate on precipitation predictions out to sixty-three dunts.”

“Kempton's got a thing for meteorology,” said Oma. “It's his backup if he doesn't make it as an Arso. Which he won't.”

“At least I'm not going to have a niche entirely forced on me, loser!” yelled Kempton.

“Both of you, stop!” said Mrs. Puber. “Patrick's siblings—none of them, I am certain, ever indulges in such petty bickering.”

Patrick folded up his napkin as neatly as he could and placed it inside the collection cart.

“All ready, everybody? Let's eat!” said Mrs. Puber. The bin almost impatiently collected Mr. Puber's napkin and sprinted from the room. A heavier-duty six-legged model entered the room in its place. It bore a wide silver disc divided into six pie-piece-shaped trays, each heaped with what Patrick presumed must be dinner, though it was, if possible, even less appetizing than last night's. The main dish looked like some sort of seed-filled pudding, surrounded by chickpeas and drizzled with pink mucus.