A Twist in the Mist, Chapter Three

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After lunch Harold organized his art supplies on the desk in his room. Coloring books, a big pad of paper, crayons and colored pencils. Archie snoozed on his furry cushion which Harold had neatly surrounded with old towels he'd brought from home. "He drools," he'd explained. TP had tried not to grimace.

"I'm going to work in my lab for a bit, if you're all set here. We'll go for a walk later when it's cooler. Just call if you need me."

Ah, at last. His vegetable stone was being prepared from celandine, and the distillation was all but complete. It was time for the next step in the process. He sterilized his equipment, washed his hands and carefully read the instructions once more. Just as he began to work, a shrill voice startled him.

"Yoo-hoo."

He rolled his eyes in frustration. It was Gladys, of course. He'd been expecting her. She would've seen Evalda and Harold arrive out her front window and had surely been chomping at the bit to find out who they were. He was surprised she'd waited this long.

"Yoo-hoo, Thad, are you home?"

Gladys was the only person on the planet who called him Thad. His mother had, but she was long gone. Gladys had seen his driver's license on the table one day, and ever since he'd been Thad.

She stood in the kitchen, her busy brown eyes taking in the sack of dog food, the dog dishes, Harold's shoes beneath the table. Tight reddish curls jiggled as her head swung this way and that. She wore a pink shirtwaist dress and one of her frilly aprons, and her painted toenails peeked out of turquoise mules topped with beaded rosettes.

"Oh, hello, Thad. Your door was open, I hope you don't mind." Her bow-shaped lips blossomed into a smile. There was lipstick on her teeth.

Of course he minded. Was his home an open house for nosy neighbors? She was holding that big brown casserole dish, and delicious smells were wafting out of it. Apparently home cooked meals gave one the right to enter without knocking.

A deep half-bark, half-howl sounded from the hallway and Archie appeared, nose in the air, tail waving furiously, hot on the scent of the casserole.

Gladys cooed at him. "Oh, what a lovely doggie! Where did you come from?" She looked at TP expectantly.

"My great-nephew's come to stay for a few days. With his dog."

"How wonderful, Thad. You should've let me know. I could've brought cookies. And some dog biscuits for this handsome fellow. What's his name?"

"That's Archie." Harold entered the kitchen. "He can't have treats. He gets too fat."

"I see. Well, maybe a soup bone then. What's your name, young man?"

TP made introductions, and Gladys held out the casserole dish. "Fancy Pants Chicken Casserole. I hope you like it, Thad. And Harold, too."

"You're too kind," TP murmured.

Really, he was going to have to start paying her. He knew she wasn't wealthy. She did a little cooking for a deli, but otherwise apparently lived on her dead husband's pension. She saved coupons and drove an old second-hand Toyota with a bad muffler. TP kept her supplied with vegetables from his garden, but still. He'd been taking advantage of her shamefully.

"There's going to be a concert in the park Friday evening," she said. "A jazz band. I love jazz, don't you?"

"Can't stand it, actually," TP said.

"Heavens, Thad, everyone loves jazz. How could you not? It makes me want to jump up and dance." She did a little twirl and swiveled her hips side to side, her curls flouncing. "Imagine that, a woman of my age." She tittered, putting a hand on her ample chest and batting her eyes. 

Good God, Evalda was right! Gladys was angling for him. How had he not seen it before? Tongue-tied and flustered, he stared at her. She wasn't a bad looking woman. Stout around the middle with a broad backside, but she had nice legs. And dainty feet. Big brown eyes and a turned up nose. But that voice! And her pushy manner. He wasn't the least bit attracted to her. Only her cooking. Guilt assailed him. He really must start paying her for the meals.

After an awkward silence, Gladys said "I'd better get going, then. I hope I didn't interrupt anything."

"I was just working in my lab."

"Working on what? I'd love to see what you do." She peered down the hallway.

"No! That is, not today." Not ever. "I've got a very delicate experiment going on. Even a sneeze could ruin it."

"It sounds fascinating! Some other time, then. Maybe I'll see you Friday."

"Friday?"

"At the jazz concert. Bring Harold. The park has a nice children's play area. Toodle-loo!"

"Why does she call you Thad, Uncle TP?" Harold wanted to know. "Is that your real name?"

"Part of it, unfortunately. Do you want to know a secret?"

Harold nodded.

"But you have to promise never to tell anyone."

"I promise."

"My real name is Thaddeus Percival. Now you know why I prefer TP."

"It's a very long name," Harold said thoughtfully. "I don't like nicknames, though."

"Why is that?"

"In kindergarten they called me Hairball."

"Ah, that would be rough. Do you know what they called me in school?"

Harold shook his head.

"Toilet Paper Dunlap."

Harold laughed out loud. Finally! TP was beginning to wonder if the boy ever cracked a smile.

He chuckled himself. "But even Toilet Paper was better than Thaddeus Percival."

Harold went back to his room and TP reentered the lab, feeling guilty for neglecting his visitor. Harold was such a quiet child it was easy to forget he was there. The boy should be out doing boy-like activities with other children, or at the very least TP should be playing catch with him, or whatever it was fathers did with their sons. He vowed he'd make it up to Harold. Soon. At the moment, this alchemical work was vital. TP felt himself creeping closer and closer to an abyss and the vegetable stone was his life rope, his only hope of survival. 

"Breathe," he muttered to himself, ignoring the little flickers of fear pricking at him. Fear was his greatest enemy. "Stay calm. Stay centered. Focus."

There were many steps in preparing the stone. Separating the elements came first - fire, air, water, earth - it took many distillations and washings, dehydrating, purifying, then adding the purified elements back together. He worked diligently, glancing often at the Latin inscription above his table: Ora, lege, lege, lege, relege, labora et invenies. Pray, read, read, read, read once again, work and you will find.

After completing the next step, TP left the lab, locking the door behind him and hanging the key in a safe place. The house was very quiet. Feeling anxious, TP hurried to Harold's room but he wasn't in it. A brief moment of panic subsided when he looked out the window. Harold was in the back yard, trying to get Archie into the garden cart. He'd managed to get Archie's front legs up onto the back of the cart but the hindquarters didn't seem to be cooperating. After much coaxing and strenuous effort the deed was accomplished. Now came the task of getting him to stay in the cart long enough to be given a ride.

TP had to admit the drooling old dog was a godsend, keeping Harold occupied. He guessed Harold was a lonely boy, what with an absent father and a mother who galivanted off to foreign lands, leaving her son in the care of her overly busy mother. Marnie was a freelance journalist, if TP remembered correctly. Wrote articles for high class fashion magazines. Probably made scads of money, but was that more important than being home to raise your child? Harold had no siblings and was called Hairball by his classmates. TP felt a pang of sympathy. He promised himself he'd do something special with Harold tomorrow. Something Harold would never do at home. He'd give the boy his full attention and get to know him better. Before it was too late.