she supposed, because she had spoiled him.
She didn’t think chicken or cheese would be good for him, and she was
not going to offer him any tortilla crumbs until he ate his vegetables,
so she nibbled on the crisp french fries and gazed around the restaurant
as if fascinated by the other customers, ignoring the rude little
reptile. He had rejected the lettuce and tomato merely to annoy her. If
he thought she didn’t give a hoot whether he ate or not, then he would
probably eat. In turtle years, Fred was seven.
She actually became interested in a heavy-metal couple with leather
clothes and strange hair. They distracted her for a few minutes, and
she was startled by her mother’s soft squeak of alarm.
“Oh,” said her mother after she squeaked, “it’s only Fred.”
The ungrateful turtle after all, Charlotte could have left him at
home–was not beside her plate where he’d been left. He had crawled
around the basket of fries to the other side of the table.
“I only got him out to feed him,” Charlotte said defensively.
Lifting the basket so Charlotte could see the turtle, Mom said, “Honey,
it’s not good for him to be in your pocket all day.”
“Not all day.” Charlotte took possession of Fred and returned him to
her pocket. “Just since we left the house for dinner.”
Mom frowned. “What other livestock do you have with you?”
“Just Fred.”
“What about Bob?” Mom asked.
“Oh, yuck,” Emily said, making a face at Charlotte. “You got Bob in
your pocket? I hate Bob.”
Bob was a bug, a slow-moving black beetle as large as the last joint of
Daddy’s thumb, with faint blue markings on his carapace.
She kept him in a big jar at home, but sometimes she liked to take him
out and watch him crawl in his laborious way across a countertop or even
over the back of her hand.
“I’d never bring Bob to a restaurant,” Charlotte assured them.
“You also know better than to bring Fred,” her mother said.
“Yes, ma’am,” Charlotte said, genuinely embarrassed.
“Dumb,” Emily advised her.
To Emily, Mom said, “No dumber than using french fries as if they’re
Lego blocks.”
“I’m making art.” Emily was always making art. She was weird sometimes
even for a seven-year-old. Picasso reincarnate, Daddy called her.
“Art, huh?” Mom said. “You’re making art out of your food, so then
what are you going to eat? A painting?”
“Maybe,” Em said. “A painting of a chocolate cake.”
Charlotte zipped shut her jacket pocket, imprisoning Fred.
“Wash your hands before you go on eating,” Daddy said.
Charlotte said, “Why?”
“What were you just handling?”
“You mean Fred? But Fred’s clean.”
“I said, wash your hands.”
Her father’s snappishness reminded Charlotte that he was not himself.
He rarely spoke harshly to her or Em. She behaved not out of fear that
he’d spank her or shout at her, but because it was important not to
disappoint him or Mom. It was the best feeling in the world when she
got a good grade in school or performed well at a piano recital and made
them proud of her. And absolutely nothing was worse than messing
up–and seeing a sad look of disappointment in their eyes, even when
they didn’t punish her or say anything.
The sharpness of her father’s voice sent her directly to the ladies’
room, blinking back tears every step of the way.
Later, on the way home from Islands, when Daddy got a lead foot, Mom
said, “Marty, this isn’t the Indianapolis Five Hundred.”
“You think this is fast?” Daddy asked, as if astonished. “This isn’t
fast.”
“Even the caped crusader himself can’t get the Batmobile up to speeds
like this.”
“I’m thirty-three, never had an accident. Spotless record. No tickets.
Never been stopped by a cop.”
“Because they can’t catch you,” Mom said.
“Exactly.”
In the back seat, Charlotte and Emily grinned at each other.
For as long as Charlotte could remember, her parents had been having
jokey conversations about his driving, though her mother was serious
about wanting him to go slower..
“I’ve never even had a parking ticket,” Daddy said.
“Well, of course, it’s not easy to get a parking ticket when the