Gray's Bidets so far

7/31/2019 Gray's Bidets so far

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Chapter One

My dad was murdered last week, on a Tuesday. Tuesdays are the worst days to live

through, let alone to die on. You have no energy left over from the weekend like you might have

on Mondays, but you arent over the Wednesday hump, either. All the good shows are on

Thursdays, and Fridays are awesome for obvious reasons, but if every day were Friday, it wouldnt

be awesome anymore because there would be no Saturday to make it awesome. Elvis died on a

Tuesday, which just adds to my list of reasons for why Tuesdays are bad because I dont like Elvis

and now my dad has to share his death day with Elvis.

Mom says I shouldnt say Dad was murdered because it was an accident, but I dont

believe that. What the police said is that Dad was working in a trench on a water pipe. It had been

raining because we live in Oregon and it rains 180 days per yearand that is a conservative

estimate. Anyway, the soil can loosen in the rain and that makes trenches really precarious, but my

dad had a trench box, which is supposed to protect you from cave-ins, except sometimes they dont

because the law allows faulty manufacturing as long as its not a common occurrence. For

example, condom manufacturers can legally allow one faulty condom in every pack of ten. That

means one in ten cases of protected sexual intercourse can in fact be legally unprotected. Whats

up with that? Well, when my dad was working in the trench, it caved in, except he wasnt even in

his box, he was standing on top of his box, and so the soil buried him up to his neck. My dads

head was sticking out of the ground, so you might think, Hey, he shouldve been fine. He could

still breathe, because thats what I thought, but it actually would have taken 800 lbs. of pressure to

lift the soil off his chest in order to take a breath. My dads fairly strong, but he cant lift 800

pounds. So his lungs couldnt expand and he suffocated, right there in the open air. My mom cried

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when she came to see him because his face was blue and his eyes were still open even though he

was dead.

I know it wasnt an accident, though. I know this because my dads especially careful when

he works in trenches. He doesnt work in the rain, he doesnt work in deep trenches, and he doesnt

work with backhoe operators he doesnt know.

Simone just looked over my shoulder and told me not to write about my dad in the present

tense. She thinks itd be easier for me to get over him if I said, My dad was especially careful in

trenches. Im not going to go back and change that, though, because this is my story and Im

going to write it the way I want.

Simone reminded me that I havent introduced myself, which is on purpose because I

wanted to start writing about my dad. My names Henry Gray. Im fifteen years old and I like

French toast more than every food Ive ever tasted. Someday, Im going to be a journalist for the

National Geographic. Im working on learning Afrikaans so that Im a more appealing

applicant because the NG does a lot of stories in Africa. I looked up the FAQ page on their

website and under careers, it says, Because we cannot know a persons particular talents nor

assure employment after a completed course, we do not encourage gearing a career or educational

program specifically toward employment by the National Geographic Society. This doesnt

matter, though, because Im learning Afrikaans and this is my life goal, so Im going to do it.

Simone also wanted me to mention that I have ADHD, which is unimportant.

Simone just told me to say who she is. I guess since Ive mentioned her several times, Id

better explain who she is. Simone is my friend. Shes a girl, but her name almost looks like Simon.

Her parents wanted to name her Simon if she were a boy, but then she turned out to be a girl so

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they put an E on the end of her name and thats just how she is. I like it. I think its better than

Jessica, Brittany, etc. The O is fun to say because many names dont have an O sound in them.

Simone wanted me to stop writing about her name and to write more about her, but I got

tired of Simone telling me what to write so I stopped and put my notebook away.

Chapter Two

Mom knocked on my door this morning. Her hair was in rollers that made it look like a

cartoon cloud was sitting on her head.

You look like a cartoon cloud is sitting on your head.

Mom nodded and dropped a pair of shoes on the ground by my bed.

Wear these today. I dont think you have any black shoes of your own, do you?

I peeked over the bed. They were my dads shoes. He wears them to big parties, but they

were originally worn in 1979 when he married my mom. He always keeps them shiny and cleans

all the scuffs off of them. Dad sang and played the guitar at their wedding. Their song was If by

Bread. I heard my mom singing it the other day when she was cooking dinner.

Henry.

I looked up. Moms eyes were red around the rims, but other than that, her makeup was

very neat and clean and she looked almost younger than she was.

Henry, come on.

She walked out of the room and down the hallway to knock on Maggies door. Maggie

drove up from UofO for the funeral and is staying in her old room even though Mom and Dad

turned it into a guest bedroom. They painted over her splattered walls and put a wash basin in there

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to make it look like a colonial room, but they refused to paint over her height markings next to the

closet, so theres a strip of splattered paint that runs from the floor up to the ceiling.

Mom poked her head back into my room.

Henry, I really cant this morning.

And she left again. I heard her take a jagged breath outside my door and start to cry but I

pretended to make a lot of noise opening my drawers so that she wouldnt think I heard her.

I pulled out my suit from the back of my closet and put it on, first the pants, and then the

shirt, and then the coat, feeling the cool polyester slide against my arms as I pushed my hands

through the sleeves. I sat on the edge of my bed, facing the mirror on my door. My face looked

different, like my mirror self was meeting my real self for the first time and didnt know what to

say. I tried to make my eyebrows sit normally above my eyes, but no matter what I did, they either

seemed surprised or angry, so I looked down at the ground, at my dads shoes. I read an article in

NG once about the bacteria on our feet. Theyre called brevibacteria and they feed on dead skin.

Theyre also used in making certain types of cheeses. I wondered if any brevibacteria from my

dads feet were still in these shoes. Probably not, but a part of me hoped that some were still alive

and living in the soles. Those brevibacteria would have lived on my dads feet. Id be okay letting

them live on mine.

Henry! Moms voice soaked up through the carpet and into my room from the kitchen

below. She was probably on the phone. She only yells when shes on the phone and cant leave

because we still have phones with cords attached to the walls.

I looked in the mirror as I slipped my toes into Dads shoes, feeling all the leather hug my

feet. I stood and let the heels of the shoes slip over my heels. I looked like a stockbroker or a

missionary, but my feet looked like my dads.

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On the way to Old Scotch Church, I got a text from Simone.

Do you still feel like scoping it out, buddy?

I texted her back:Yes.

Ok. Im here for you.

Maggie pulled her black hat off of her almost white, blonde hair and turned around in her

seat to look back at me and my phone.

Youre not going to be texting during the service, are you?

I put my phone back in my pocket. Simone just wanted to know if I was okay.

Maggies face lifted like a bunch of strings were pulling up her mouth and eyes and cheeks.

She glanced at Mom, but Mom was still staring at the road.

Are you guys dating?

I didnt think Maggie should be talking about Simone or dating or anything like that on the

way to Dads funeral so I just shook my head and then leaned against the window. I looked down

at the yellow lines on the road until I was too dizzy to keep my eyes open.

When we got to the church, my Uncle Tom came out to get us. He helped Mom out of the

car and Maggie and I walked behind them into the chapel.

Dads casket was at the front, open at the top so we could see his folded hands and plastic

face. I didnt like to look at it because he looked like a life-size Ken Doll, so I stared at the metal

pipes for the organ that lined the back wall. As we walked to the front, I could feel everyone in

their pews, talking, and then shooting silent pauses at us like little BBs that almost cut my face. I

hated it. I cant stand when its quiet. My hands started to clam up, so I patted my cheeks, feeling

my cold fingers sticking to my skin. The clapping sound made me feel a little better, so I clapped a

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little faster and then even faster, closing my eyes to hear my fingers flapping against my face.

Maggies hands held my wrists and I stopped because her fingers were freezing and felt skinny and

frail. I looked around at all the faces that had paused as we passed, but none of them were looking

at me.

Mom sat down between Uncle Tom and Aunt Debbie and then Maggie sat near the wall,

leaving just enough space for me. I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned around. It was Simone. I

was glad to see her. Her hair was all pinned up with a few pieces of locks hanging down and curled

by her ears. She was all in black except for her bright red shoes she got for her birthday.

Simone is all on board with the idea that Dad was murdered. We agreed to look for

suspicious activity during the memorial services because 53.8% of murders happen between people

who know each other. If someone killed my dad and knew him, they wouldnt be able to skip the

funeral because thatd be suspicious. So theyd have to be here in the church.

I gave Simone the thumbs up and pulled out a little notebook from my inside suit pocket.

The organ began to play and the service started. Throughout the service, I looked around at all the

faces in the pews behind us. Simone looked, too. This was not disrespectful. I had to find out who

killed my dad. Besides, I could still hear what everyone was saying during the service because Im

good at multitasking. The first rows in the chapel were for our family, but I couldnt rule anybody

out who was in town the day my dad was killed.

- Uncle Tom. Dads brother. Carpet cleaner. Practical jokester. Sometimes extreme jokester.

- Aunt Debbie. Talkative. Moms best friend. Owns many pairs of shoes.

- Aunt Reggie. Sitting pretty far away from second husband, Max. Not crying. Could be because

Uncle Max still hasnt found a job. Always calls Max a lazy slob.

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- Jeffrey. Cousin. Second row. Playing on his phone. Works with Dad. But kind of stupid and

never gets mad.

This is true. Even if you slapped Jeff across the face, hed just say, Aw, lay off, will ya?

like stupid people say in movies.

- Mrs. Pierce. Freshman biology teacher. Looking at me. Could be spying on me, but still keep an

eye on her.

- Jackson Skinner. Green Abercrombie sweater. Not black. Sleeping. Hates me. Hoofverdagte.

Thats Afrikaans for head suspect. If Im making notes about this, I cant write all my

thoughts in English. Someone might find them and hunt me down for knowing too much.

When the memorial service was finished, Reverend Thorpe closed the casket and Maggie

nudged me because I was supposed to help carry the casket to the grave. Im not very strong, but

luckily the cemetery is part of the church grounds, so it was right outside. Uncle Tom took the

front left, Uncle Max took the front right. Papa and I took the middle sides, and Dads friend, Bob

Shepherd, took the back.

I could feel the shifting of weight inside as all of us balanced the casket on our shoulders.

My shoulder bones already jut out of my skin because Im so skinny, so carrying heavy wood on

them didnt feel very good, but I didnt complain or anything. I made sure to walk the same speed

as everyone else because my dad was in this casket.

Mom and Maggie cried together when they lowered the coffin into the grave. I didnt cry,

but I put my arms around them so theyd feel better. When it was all finished, I left my mom by

the grave so that she could talk to my dad alone. Maggie went home early to help get lunch ready,

so Simones dad said hed drive me back.

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Im really sorry, Henry, Simone said after I left the grave. Her face was almost as red as

her hair. I hugged her and could feel her stomach moving in and out in irregular patterns as she

cried. She leaned her head on my shoulder where I could still feel the soreness from the casket. She

didnt make any noise except for the breaths she sucked in like surprises.

Hey, look. Simone let go and pointed behind me. I turned to where she was looking,

across the cemetery near an old statue that looked like a miniature Washington Monument.

Someone was talking to Uncle Tom. I didnt recognize him, but he looked nervous and angry. I

pulled out my notebook.

- Unidentified man in black suit. Faded black newsies cap. 'N moordenaar?

1

Im going to talk to him, I whispered.

Simone pulled on my coat. You cant go confront someone in a cemetery!

Im not going to confront him. I looked at Simone, then back at the man. Im just

gathering evidence.

Simone nodded and I walked past her through the grass. The man was walking away from

Uncle Tom and leaving through the grave sites, so I picked up my pace to a jog. I noticed as I got

closer that he limped a little. His hair was slicked back from under his hat and into the collar of his

shirt.

Excuse me? I called after the man. He didnt slow down. Hello? I called again.

The man stopped and turned. His cheeks were drawn so tight over his face that dark lines

showed where his cheekbones hung like hollowed caves. I slowed down and took a breath.

Sorry, I dont think weve met. I tried to sound casual, but somber, because this was a

funeral, and I wasnt supposed to sound excited.

1 Killer?

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The mans forehead scrunched and his eyes squinted and he smiled a little, like he was

trying to look sad for me. I doubt he was very sad, though.

We have met, you were just very young, the man said. He breathed through his large

nostrils and then held out his hand. Youre Henry?

Yeah. I nodded, unsure whether I should take his hand, but then took it.

The man nodded back. Im Paul. Your dad and I went to college together. We both

studied engineering.

Oh, I said as nicely as I could. Are you a plumber?

Paul chuckled. His laugh sounded like a chipmunk, except a little slower. Like a drunk

chipmunk. Why would he laugh when I asked if he was a plumber?

No, I ended up taking the business route. He put his long hands over his sharp cheeks,

flattening his fingers so that his palms sunk into the caves beneath his cheekbones. But Im still in

the same area. Im a marketer for Angel Soft.

I shrugged. Angel Soft?

The toilet paper industry.

I nodded. Oh.

Paul shook his head, But I dont want to take you away from your family. I just wanted to

pay my respects. He pulled his newsies hat off to reveal a receding hairline. He scratched his

neck, sighing just long enough for me to look down at the ground because there was so much

silence.

Terrible the way everything went down. Pauls face didnt stop smiling a little bit in the

corners of his mouth. He looked like a punk.

Okay, well, nice to meet you, Punk.

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What?

Paul. I backed away. Nice to meet you.

Again. Paul winked, like a schmuck.

I turned around and pulled out my notebook. Yep.

When I got to Simones dads van, I made a few notes and Simone opened the side door.

He seemed like a creep.

I put down my notebook and looked back at Paul, who looked more like a black splotch in

the middle of all the graves, walking away. I turned back to my notebook.

Hy is dit.

2

Chapter Three

Im trying to put it all together. I had this unusual dream last night and when I woke up, I

couldnt make sense of it. It could have been because I watched Hamlet on BBC before going to

bed, but I dreamt that Paul, the man from the funeral, killed my dad and that I was the only person

who knew about it. Eventually, Paul turned into Michael Jackson and I ended up beating him up

with a PVC pipe onstage in front of a huge crowd of fans, but thats neither here nor there.

Everyone thought Hamlet was crazy, but his dad appeared to him and showed Hamlet how

Claudius killed him, so I knew Hamlet wasnt crazy. Im not crazy either. I know someone killed

my dad, and I think it was Paul. Ive just got to put it together.

When I got to school that day, I found Simone at her locker. I noticed Jackson Skinner was

at his locker too, so I made myself look unsuspecting and pedestrian. I stood behind the door of

Simones locker, blocking my view of Simone from the waist up.

Wheres your chem notes? Simone asked, still rooting through her locker.

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I shrugged, even though she couldnt see me. Jackson shut his locker across the hall and

made eye contact with me.

What are you staring at, queer?

Thats Jacksons way of insulting me. I doubt he actually thinks Im gay, but thats what he

calls me. Id have at least a little respect for him if he threw some real insults my way. Insults that

required thought and planning.

Simone turned around and looked at Jackson. I looked down at the ground.

Youre staring too, Simone said. But she didnt sound mean at all.

I glanced up to see if Jackson had responded, but hed already walked away from us down

the hall with several huge, stupid friends. Jackson Skinner is one of those guys whos not very

good looking, and hes not nice or funny or smart. Yet, somehow, everybody likes him. Or

tolerates him. In middle school he was just as scrawny as I was, but now he makes it a point to

show me how strong he is. Usually by threatening to break my nose. But I dont care. Im much

smarter than he is, and Im going to have a better career, family, and sense of moral priorities, so I

dont let any of that bother me.

Henry. The locker in front of me slams shut.

I looked at Simone. Her eyebrows seemed glued to her eyelids, like a permanent

scrunching frown.

What? I asked.

I need your notes, man! Simone ran her hands through her hair, her fingers got caught at

the top of her head, so she shook her head and sighed with her teeth clenched together. Mr.

Vargas hates me and I have to ace this final if I dont want to take him again next year.

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The bell rang with little click-clacks. It sounded more like a rattle than a bell because it

broke over Christmas break when it rang for two weeks straight without anybody noticing. I rested

my head against the locker next to Simones, letting my forehead slide over the cool, raised slits.

Im trying to figure it out.

Simone stopped fidgeting in her bag and looked at me. Figured what out?

I shook my head. Ill tell you when were in Spanish.

No, dude. Simone yanked on her zipper and shut her backpack closed. I cant afford to

not pay attention. Seora Eisenberg is telling us all the questions from the final today.

Fine, I said. Skip your bus then and just walk home with me after school.

Simone nodded. Righto.

School went by rather quickly today. I dont even remember whether I had any lunch. All

through my classes, I made and studied lists instead of making notes. Im a smarter than average

student. In fact, Im very smart. Im just not very studious, which is very different. When people

hear I have ADHD, they automatically associate me with pogo-stick-jumping little boys who say

everything that comes to mind and cant pay attention to anything because theyre crazy. Thats a

common misconception. I dont have problems paying attention, the problem is, I have problems

not paying attention. I see everything. I know that the tiles on the floor of our nurses room are

cracked and painted over in the corner next to the water cooler and the stack ofPeople

magazines. Nobody reads those magazines except for the nurse because shes divorced. I heard her

mentioning it to our receptionist once when I was waiting for my dad to come pick me up from

school. Our receptionist has coral colored nails that she keeps manicured. I think theyre fake

because they sound very sturdy when she drums them against her desk, unless she takes vitamins

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to make her nails stronger. I know that the clock in our cafeteria is slow because sometimes the

hands take two or three seconds to tick instead of the necessary one second (hence, a second

hand). I know that Simone chews watermelon-flavored gum and that she bites her nails because

she has hangnails all the time. They dont look that bad, though, especially because she paints

them, but I can still see her hangnails. The problem is that I usually think about things all at once

when I notice them, unless I take my medication. That helps me stay focused, thus allowing me to

think about only one or two things at a time. However, sometimes I forget to take my medication,

or Im having a bad day, and I cant focus on anything, so I think about everything. My teachers

would say Im a bad student, but I guarantee that theyd all say Im smarter than average.

Today, Id taken my medication, so I could focus. But I didnt want to focus on math or

physics or literature or P.E. even though finals were this week. I know I could pass all my classes

without much time devoted to studying; there were more important things to worry about and I

needed to move while the trail is fresh.

When school was finished, I waited for Simone by her locker, still looking over my lists

and notes.

- Newsies hat: Eccentric? Time spent abroad? Fan ofNewsies?

- College engineering program: Methodical, scientific, inventive(?)

- Businessman at Angel Soft: More interested in money than engineering?

- Knows Uncle Tom and me as a baby: Old family friend? Old family enemy?

- Angry conversation with Tom: Quick-tempered? Guilty?

The hallway got quieter. Most people had left for their buses or cars. Soon I heard skidding

shoes walking across the tile floor in my direction. That was Simone. She always skidded her

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shoes, scuffing black marks onto the floor because she never picked up her heels. Ive told her that,

but she still does it all the time.

Ready? I looked up at Simone with my notebook hugged against my chest.

Simone nodded. Sorry, I had to talk to Mr. Vargas about extra credit. Lousy bastard.

We walked through the football field, cutting through groups of runners as they ran around

the track. I looked around to make sure no one was watching us, then walked closer to Simone.

I think that guy at the funeral mightve killed my dad.

Simone stopped talking. She almost stopped walking, but I didnt stop because I didnt

want to look suspicious to anyone who might be spying on us. I waved Simone to keep walking, so

she kept pace with me, but she still stayed silent.

I opened my notebook. Im trying to see a motive. Theres always a reason people murder

other people, right?

Unless theyre crazy. Simone shook her head.

I pointed to her, nodding. Right. I thumbed through the pages, looking over my notes.

Maybe if I talked to Tom, or even my mom?

Simone frowned. I dont know if your mom would want to talk about the guy who killed

your dad.

We came to the crosswalk in front of my neighborhood, waiting on the corner after Simone

pushed the button.

She doesnt think my dad was murdered.

Simone shrugged. Still.

Nah, youre probably right, I said, turning back to the lists. He said he worked at Angel

Soft.

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Thats a toilet paper company.

I stopped, staring at Simone. She looked back without moving any part of her face.

What?

Yes! I didnt even think about it! I stared hard at the ground, putting my hand to my cheek

and patting it. I pat it faster and faster, buzzing my lips to drown out the sounds of the cars and

their radios playing through their windows.

Henry, what? Simone grabbed my wrist. I looked at her, smiling.

Think about it. Remember my dads company he wanted to patent?

Simones face lit up. Grays Bidets! she said, hitting her forehead.

He was this close to starting his own line, I said, pinching my fingers together.

Simone nodded, laughing. Trust your A with a Gray.

My dad is a plumber, but hes also a fantastic engineer and inventor. He lived in Argentina

for a year before he married my mom and when he was there, all the people he lived with owned

bidets because nobody used toilet paper. When my dad came back to the States, he was hooked. He

bought a mobile bidet and used it everywhere. He installed bidets in our house so that wed never

have to buy toilet paper. Eventually, he started constructing newer bidets of his own in the

basement. He told me bidets were better than toilet paper for three reasons: cost-effectiveness,

water efficiency, and sanitation. He tells me all the time, Henry, bidets are the future. When he

gets the patent, he says, every American home will have a bidet from Jason Gray.

Of course. It all made sense. Paul works for Angel Soft, a toilet paper company that would

lose significant revenue in the U.S.one of the few first world countries that relies predominantly

on dry paper sanitation, by the wayif bidets replaced their household market.

A car horn sounded right next to me, making me jump.

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Henry! Simone pulled on my arm.

I turned and saw a man in a Toyota Tercel with his blinker on, turning. I looked down at

the crosswalk Id stepped in, then took a step back.

Whoops. I smiled.

Simone exhaled sharply, sounding like a jet of water spraying from a hose. You need to

look where youre going.

The crosswalk sign turned green and I kept walking onto the road. I turned to look at

Simone, who was a few steps behind me. Simone, I said, this is a conspiracy.

She raised her eyebrows. You mean like Watergate?

I nodded. Something like that.

Paul, you slimeball.

Chapter Four

Simone thought it necessary that I explain what a bidet is. In fact, you might even read the

word as bid-ett. This is wrong. Its pronounced, Bid-ay. A bidet is a sanitation device that uses

water, instead of toilet paper, to clean your nether regions. Some of the more advanced models,

like ours, have air dryers. Here is a picture from the 18th century of women using bidets that I

found on Wikipedia. I thought it was funny.

And heres another one:

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Im not sure why shes in a closet here. The first picture makes it seem like such a party,

except for the pervert in the corner.

The problem with toilet paper is that its unsanitary. Would you ever prefer the feel of an

unclean anus to some water and soap? And you know what I mean when I say unclean anus.

Simone told me not to be crass, but my dad says you have to be frank when talking about toilets,

otherwise you dont get anywhere.

Today was the first day of summer vacation. Mom knocked on my door in the morning. I

was already awake, but I hadnt gotten out of bed yet because I thought I could think better staring

at the ceiling.

Henry, Mom said, leaning against my doorframe. Do you want to say goodbye to

Maggie? Shes taking off after breakfast.

I sat up and stretched, letting my neck sink into my shoulders a little bit. Mom stared at me

without saying anything. Its been almost three weeks since Dads funeral, and Mom still doesnt

talk very much. Mostly she asks what Maggie and I want for dinner and then shell go upstairs

every night to call Aunt Debbie on the phone. I could hear Mom crying sometimes in her room,

and Id rock against my headboard to hear the creak of the springs under my mattress. But then

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Maggie would knock on my moms door and ask if she was all right and shed stop crying for a

second to let Maggie in the room. Then theyd both cry, so Id rock harder against my headboard,

hearing the squeaks and scratches of the springs coiling against themselves and stretching out

again. This has happened several times. I wonder what will happen when Maggie leaves. Will I

have to knock on Moms door and cry with her? Moms bed doesnt creak like mine.

Mom knocked against my doorframe and I looked up at her.

Coming? she asked, walking out of my doorway and down the stairs.

I heard the stairs groan a little bit again, thinking Mom may have forgotten to tell me

something, but it wasnt Mom. It was Maggie. She stood by my door, pulling at her hoodie strings

and then finally sat down on the floor in the middle of the doorframe. Maggie clasped her hands

together and put her nose against her fist, looking up at me.

Whatll you do when I go?

I didnt know what to say. I hadnt thought much about it.

Maggies hair fell into her eyes, almost blending in with her pale face. She took a deep

breath and then put her hands on the carpet under her feet.

Have a conversation with Mom every day, okay? Maggie said.

I nodded. Okay.

Dont let her go the whole day without talking to you.

I wont.

Maggie breathed in again, jagged and uneven. She traced a stain in the carpet with her

fingers. Simone took a pitcher of Kool-Aid up here once when we were in fourth grade, but she

tripped and spilled it all right on the carpet. I was so scared, I tried to cover it up with my pillow,

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and the next morning my dad stepped into my room, looked at the bright pink stain on the bottom

of his sock, and then grounded me.

Henry.

I looked up. Maggies cheeks were wet.

What the hell are you going to do? she asked.

I looked back at the stain on the carpet. A dog started barking across the street. I could hear

it through the window. I looked back at Maggie, nodding.

Ill set things right.

Maggie wiped her face, brushing the sides of her fingers under her eyes so that her makeup

wouldnt smudge. Thats how most girls cry.

Maggie stood up, holding her arms open. Come here, H.

I got out of bed and hugged Maggie around the shoulders. I was taller than her now, so I

could do that. She smelled different from what I remembered, like perfume instead of soap or

laundry detergent. I felt her back lift and then fall as she breathed into my shirt.

I miss Dad, she said, sniffling. I didnt think about her nose running on my clothes

because I knew she wouldnt like me bringing that up. So I rubbed her back and said that I missed

him, too.

Maggie backed up and looked at me. Her makeup was smudged a little because shed been

leaning on me.

Please make sure Moms all right, she said.

Okay. I nodded.

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I watched through my window as Mom helped Maggie pack her bags into the hatchback of

her car, waved goodbye, then went to work without coming back in the house. I took my phone off

my dresser and texted Simone.

Start today?

I pulled out my notebook from the drawer on my bedside table. My phone buzzed. It was

Simone. Shed come over after breakfast because her mom made banana pancakes and those are

her favorite.

The first place to start investigating would obviously be Dads office in the basement.

Simone agreed to stay in the kitchen on our computer, researching everything she could about

Angel Soft and every other toilet paper company out there as well as any conspiracies involved in

their industries. I would look through Dads bank statements, patent forms, and other legal

documents to see any motive for his murder from a business standpoint.

The basement was warm and thick, like sucking through foam every time I breathed in.

Dads model bidets lined the back wall, standing upright against dusty bricks. There were nozzle

bidets attached to regular toilet tanks, porcelain bowl bidets that looked like something out of a

modern art catalogue (there werent even stands for these bowls, they just sat right on the ground),

urinal-style bidets, and finally, Dads two tier bidet. This is his baby, his model that will join the

two worlds of dry and wet toilet sanitation. It looked like a normal toilet, but it had two tiers for the

seat and it attached to two tanks in the backone for flushing, and one for rinsing. The problem

with separate bidets is that you have to stand up and move to the bidet to rinse off, and most people

prefer buying toilet paper to potentially soiling their bathroom floor while traveling between

thrones. With this baby, you wouldnt have to worry about that. After doing your business, you

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push the lever on the left side of the bowl. This triggers the faucets located in the higher tierthe

tier closest to your nether regions to rinse front and back. After rinsing sufficiently, you push the

lever on the right side of the bowl. This triggers the drier on the sides of the higher tier to dry you

enough to stand. After you stand and pull your pants back up, you push the button on the tanks,

which flushes the waste away. This way, people dont have to worry about moving from one place

to another, while keeping sufficiently cleaner down there than what theyd experience with cheap

removable bidets.

Its really a brilliant idea. Dad calls it The Bird after Larry Bird because Larry cleans house

on the court.

Simone told me I should sketch a picture of the bidet so you could see it for yourself, so

here it is.

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Dads work papers were all in a filing cabinet by the water heater. He never locks it

because he never needs to, so I shuffled through the cabinets looking for anything interesting.

Not much. Most of the drawers are full of birth certificates, insurance clauses for the house

and car, mortgage agreements, etc. until I got to the bottom drawer. Bingo. Bank statements for

loans and transfers made with the purpose of Grays Bidets.

The basement was so warm, or maybe I was just sweating. I opened the little window

above the model bidets. The air outside wasnt much cooler, but it blew in and out of the room,

making the air less thick and pasty. The grass needed mowing in our front lawn. Maybe Id get to

that today. Looking outside with my eyes at ground level, I pictured what itd be like to be buried

this way, with my head out of the ground. What would my eyes see before things went black? If I

strained my neck, I could see wisps of the clouds, but that took a lot of effort. It would probably be

the carsthe gutter-level view of all the cars passing by, probably splashing mud onto the grass. I

closed my eyes and imagined being buried in mud, watching muddy water splash near me onto the

yard from the dirty undersides of all the cars passing by. If that were the last thing Id see, I could

probably find it beautiful.

Juniper, Mrs. Pascals Rottweiler, let out a deep hollow bark from next door, making me

jump and open my eyes. I slapped my face. Stop it, Henry. Focus on this. I moved back to Dads

file cabinet and leafed through the documents spread out on the floor. One paper felt slightly

heavier than any of the other forms. I held it up.

State of Oregon

Department of Consumer and Business Services

Division of Finance and Corporate Securities

It was watermarked with the Oregon governmental seal.

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CONSUMER FINANCE LICENSE

UNDER THE OREGON CONSUMER FINANCE ACT

License # 0334-056-Q

My dad got the business approved. He was officially granted authority start his own bidet

company. I looked at the date. It was signed in tight cursive by Todd K. Dixon, Division of

Finance and Corporate Securities on March 23almost three months ago.

Hey, Henry, come here. Simone poked her head inside the doorway at the top of the

stairs.

I looked up. You find something?

She waved her arm. Come look at this.

I dropped the certificate, jumped the stairs two at a time, almost tripping over the doorway,

and leaned over Simones shoulder to look at the computer screen. A picture. I stared harder.

What is it? I asked, searching the screen.

I found this meme of Keanu Reeves wondering if there are no bidets in the U.S. because

the government owns the toilet paper industry. Simone giggled for a second, but then stopped

when she saw me not giggling back, letting only Junipers howls from next door fill the silence.

Sorry, buddy, she said, closing the browser. Im still looking.

Simone clicked vigorously while I walked back down the basement stairs, probably just

trying to sound busy.

When I walked back to the filing cabinet, I stopped. The air smelled a little different.

Juniper still hadnt shut up. I looked back out the basement window, hearing a car ignition start

down the street. Wait a minute.

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I ran back to the filing cabinet, clutching all the papers in my fist and almost leaping back

across the room to the open window. My heart played against my sternum like a heavy mallet. I

thumbed through the file of documentsJuniper still barkingsaw the business license and

dropped all the other papers. The watermark was still there. The basement door creaked behind me.

Henry?

I heard Simones feet tapping each stare as she walked toward me. The name, Todd K.

Dixon, there it was. Only

Someone switched the document. I looked at the name again and again.

What? Simone asked.

Right here, when I left.

The signature line was blank, with only Dixons printed name below the line, in laser ink,

where it doesnt do anything. The documents unsigned.Now its unsigned. It was signed before I

left the room, wasnt it? It was. In tight cursive.

My palms felt sticky against the tips of my fingers. Juniper finally shut up next door. I

looked out the window, watching a black SUV drive by our house and turn the corner onto

Landing Dr. disappearing down the street.

Chapter Five In Which Something is Up

Day two of the investigation: Uncle Tom. Im on a trail to something because someone was

in our basement. Someone switched those documents, Im sure of it. If Paul Angel Soft has

anything to do with this, Tom might know about it.

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Simone opened the front door without knockingshe usually doesntand sat down in

my moms rocking chair. I didnt think Mom would mind because she was eating breakfast in the

kitchen.

You ready? Simone asked. She wore two braids today with little bows on the ends of

each braid. Simone doesnt usually dress up, but she had a dinner with her grandparents later that

day and her mom made her put bows on. Shed have to wear a dress later.

I ran to the kitchen, pulling my sneakers over my heels. Mom held the newspaper close to

her face, but she wasnt reading. She usually mouths the words when shes reading, but she just

stared at the paper today. I remembered what Maggie said about making sure I talked to Mom.

What are you reading about? I asked, even though I knew Mom wasnt reading at all.

Mom looked up for a moment, then back at her paper, taking a sip of tea. Just checking

for coupons, she mumbled, folding the paper and standing out of her chair. She looked at me once

more, then fumbled in her purse. The water damage from the upstairs shower was starting to show

through the ceiling again. I could see dark spots beginning to spread through the plaster like oil

drops on fabric.

Moms tangy perfume hit me as she walked past me and to the garage.

Ill see you tonight, then, I said. The back of her head nodded and she shut the door.

Geen sensasie.3

I turned back to Simone who was chewing on the end of one braid.

Come on, I said, taking my backpack with me out the front door.

Uncle Tom lived about five miles away in North Plains. Normally wed bike, but Tom

lived on a hill and it looked close to raining, so Simone borrowed her parents minivan. We didnt

3 No sensation.

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say anything as we coasted up and down the road, passing farms and the church while Spongebob

Squarepantsplayed on the DVD screen in the backseat. I was never a fan of Spongebob. The

clever protagonists always make better entertainment than the cute ones. Thats what my dad says.

We pulled into Toms driveway next to his old, rusty Buick. His goat Peanut stood near the

front porch, chewing weeds and staring at us with bug eyes that looked in different directions.

Toms house was old, but bigger than mine. The yellow paint cracked around the doors and

windows, but it made the home look cozy, like a bed and breakfast.

You okay, buddy? Simone asked, turning the ignition off. Spongebob stopped talking.

I nodded. Why?

She shook her head. Nothing.

Nothing always means something, its just too big of a something to mention without much

time and attention spent talking about it. Today, however, I did not have time or attention to focus

on Simones something. We had to talk to Uncle Tom.

I knocked on the front door and rang the doorbell in case no one heard the knock. Simone

locked the van and waited with me on the porch. At first it sounded like no one was home, but then

heavy footsteps thudded toward us from inside the house and I knew they were Toms. He opened

the door, letting his belly poke through the gap in the doorway.

Simone, Henry. Tom smiled. His blond mustache shook with each breath out of his nose.

Good to see the both of you. He opened the door wider and gestured for us to come in. Sorry,

he muttered. I just got home from a clients house and was working up a bath. His suspenders

hung down from his waist, swaying against his thighs when he walked and turned. So what are

you doing out here? he asked.

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Simone and I sunk into a floral loveseat against the window. The fabric smelled like how

paisley looks. It smelled stiff and old, but not bad. I remember tipping this couch on its back when

I was a kid and us cousins would battle in the living room. I broke the head off of Joseph from

Aunt Debbies Nativity set, but she glued it back on. It still sits a little crooked, which always

makes Joseph look like hes hiding something from all the other people in the stable.

You kids staying busy this summer? Tom sat down on the piano bench across from us,

leaning against the covered keys with his arms sprawled out and hanging over the edges.

I folded my arms over my notebook and crossed my legs, sinking into the couch because it

made me look at ease and comfortable. Weve got a few assignments ahead of us, but we just

wanted to talk to you for a little bit today.

Tom raised his eyebrows, nodding. Yeah? He let his eyebrows sink back down. Hows

your mom holding up?

Tough as nails, I said.

Yeah she is. Tom smiled. She held up mighty good at the funeral.

I sat up a little straighter. About that, I met someone at the funeral. I paused to make it

seem like I didnt remember exactly what Angel Soft looked like. He said his name was Paul?

Toms smile straightened into one line, now hidden by his mustache. He sat up from the

piano and leaned forward on the bench. Yeah, he knew your dad.

Did you know him? I asked.

He nodded. Paul was your dads roommate up at Portland State. Deb and I got to know

him when your mom and dad started dating.

I talked to him a little bit at the cemetery, I said. He seemed sort of weird.

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Tom stood up. Here, hold on a second. He shuffled out of the room, going upstairs. The

ceiling creaked a little where he walked around.

What are you looking for? Simone asked.

I shrugged. Anything. What his personality was like, how long they stayed in touch,

where he works.

Simone scrunched her forehead. Where he works?

I dont know.

Toms feet thudded back toward the staircase. He rounded the banister and came back to

the living room with a shoebox.

Your aunt Debbie likes to keep everything. He opened the shoebox and set it on the

coffee table. Inside were pictures and pieces of paper, crinkled and soft around the edges where

theyd been folded. Tom pulled out the pictures and flicked through them, leaving faint loops of

his fingerprints on the corners. I saw Moms face upside down in Toms hands. Her smile looked

big, dramatic. Her hair was in the middle of spinning around, a brighter blonde than it was now.

She stood next to a woman turned away from the camera, but it looked like Aunt Debbie from her

thick black hair running straight down her back. She still styles it like that, but its more gray than

black now.

Tom kept dropping pictures from the top of his pile back into the box, shaking his head. I

know hes in here somewhere.

I could see on the fronts of envelopes at the bottom of the box that some of these notes

were from my dad. His handwriting packs together in dark capital letters like hes in a hurry and

everything hes chosen to say is important.

Here he is.

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I looked up at the photo in Toms hand. It was washed out like the saturation had been

turned down, but thats how pictures looked back then. It was a Christmas party. A tree with tinsel

and lights stood in the background. Mom and Dad held cups in their hands, laughing. They looked

young and tan. Aunt Debbie stood next to Mom, wearing Daisy Duke shorts that would not look

good on her now. Id wonder why Debbie wore shorts to a Christmas party, but that seems like

something shed do. On the other side of Dad was Angel Soft, a younger Angel Soft. He seemed a

little fuller, but his cheekbones still jutted out of his face like a malnourished runway model. He

wore a red turtleneck with black pants and had his hand on Dads shoulder, laughing with my dad.

He laughed with my dad at one point. This picture proved it.

I took the photo from Tom and turned it over. The back had faded cursive scrawled across

in blue ink. Lollys Christmas party! Thats my moms name. Her real names Laurel, but people

she grew up with call her Lolly. The second line of writing said, Deb, Lolly, Jay, Pauly

December 19, 1977. So they called Angel Soft Pauly. Pauly and Jay.

Were you pretty good friends with the guy? I asked, looking back at Uncle Tom.

Tom bunched his mouth to one side. Debbie and I both knew him pretty well. Hed come

home for Thanksgiving sometimes while he lived with your dad. Tom rubbed his nose between

his thumb and forefinger and snorted in like he was going to hawk a loogie, but he didnt. Aunt

Debbie wouldve heard it from wherever she was. She kept this house cleaner than her own teeth.

He sort of fell out with the family though, Tom said, swallowing. I tried not to think

about phlegm sliding down his esophagus. Stopped seeing us when work got him going in

different directions than Jay.

I handed Tom the picture. He seemed pretty angry when he talked to you at the cemetery.

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Tom didnt move at all, but his eyes stared somewhere between me and the picture in his

hands. He wasnt looking at anything. He was thinking.

Are you okay, Tom? Simone asked, touching his arm.

Tom looked up at Simone, then at me, smiling a little. You guys want some lemonade or

iced tea or something? It was still rather cool outside because summer doesnt really start in

Oregon until mid-July, but Simone nodded and I did, too.

Yes, please, I said, watching him drop the photo back in the box and walk towards the

kitchen.

I looked at Simone. Hes hiding something, I whispered.

Simone nodded. But you cant just ask him. You gotta get it out of him so he doesnt

realize youve gotten it out of him.

I know, I said. I stood up and peered around the wall to the kitchen. Toms back was to

us. He was rooting through the fridge. I hurried over to the photo box and pulled out the pictures,

putting them neatly on the coffee table so I could put them back the same way. Then I slid my

fingers under the letters, feeling the thin cardboard bottom of the shoebox graze against my

cuticles and knuckles.

You want raspberry or strawberry lemonade? Toms voice shot through the kitchen

doorway. I straightened, feeling my breath catch in my mouth and slap against my teeth like a

choppy tide. I turned around, hiding the box behind my torso. Toms head was all that was visible

from behind the refrigerator door. Deb likes to keep drinks on deck in case anybody stops by.

My fingers shook against the box, knocking some of the pictures off the table and onto the

floor. Strawberry sounds good. I glanced at Simone, raising my eyebrows. Mm? Strawberry?

Simone nodded. Actually, if I could have raspberry, thatd be wonderful.

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Tom disappeared again into the fridge. Strawberry andraspberry. All right.

Simone knelt next to me by the table, collecting the photos. They turned in every direction.

Do you remember if they all faced one way? Simone whispered.

I shook my head. Just stack them together. I took the heap of letters from the box, feeling

the flexible thickness of paper inside paper. Weighing the pile in my hands, I frowned. We need

to replace the weight, I said. Hell notice.

Simone glimpsed at the box, holding pictures in one hand and brushing hair out of her face

with the other. She looked at the couch, next to where I was sitting. What about your notebook?

Simone aimed her chin near my knees.

The little spiral-bound book looked up at me, almost nodding as I shifted my weight on the

couch cushion.

What if he looks through it? I asked.

Come on, Simone said. He hasnt opened this in years. And if he does look inside, hell

probably just look at the pictures. She leaned over the coffee table and grabbed the book, flipping

the cover back so that blank pages no faced outward toward us. Youll have white paper under the

pictures, so it looks exactly the same. She said.

I stared hard at the book. Those are my notes.

Sounds of ice clinking glass rang from the kitchen. All righty, Tom said, closing the

refrigerator door.

My eyes burned. I blinked a second and looked at Simone. The bones in my fingers felt

like hollow straws that would snap and break if I moved.

Simone dropped the notebook on the bottom of the shoebox, taking the letters from me and

shoving them in her cloth bag on the floor. Toms boots clunked across the kitchen floor. Simone

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scattered the pictures over the blank pages on the bottom of the box, keeping a few in her hand and

displaying them for me to see.

What you got there? Tom bent over the box, setting the glasses of pink and red juice by

our hands. I could feel the cold from the cup spreading like mist onto my skin.

Simone held up the Christmas picture. Is this Debbie? she asked, smiling like nothing

was wrong or strange or different from when Tom left. She pointed to the Daisy Dukes on Debbie

in the picture and took a drink of lemonade. Simone looked at me, nodding. I felt her knee hit my

shin and I took a drink from my glass, too.

Tom laughed. Yeah, she liked to show off those gams of hers.

Simone laughed, too. So I laughed. We all laughed.

Well, I said, putting down my glass. Simone has to go to her grandparents house, so

wed better go.

Tom scratched his cheek, right next to his mustache. Oh, so soon?

Yeah. Simone shrugged. We just thought wed stop by on the way.

Tom smiled. Well, Im glad you did. Good to see you holding up well, Henry.

Simone was so good at lying with nonchalance.

We stood up. Simone grabbed her back, keeping the top pinched shut as she put it over her

shoulder. I opened the door and walked outside, smelling fertilizer and feeling thick air on my face,

the air that meant it was going to rain.

Ill keep these drinks cold for you. Tom waved. Come by again, soon.

When Simone and I got back in the van, we waited a moment. Simone pulled out the letters

and put them on my lap, keeping them below the dashboard in case Tom was looking out the

window.

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I ran my fingers over the broken seals on the backs of the envelopes, feeling scraps of

ripped paper shift under my thumbs. I could sense Simone looking at me.

You going to read them now? she asked.

I hugged the envelopes close to me, feeling my heart ripple through my t-shirt. No, I

said, nodding toward the living room window where Tom stood waving. Just go.

Chapter 6 In Which I Investigate at Dads Work

The next morning, I came downstairs to Mom getting her jacket and shoes on next to the

door. It was Saturday, so she wouldnt have been going into work.

Wherere you going, Mom? I asked.

Mom kept looking at her shoes for a second, rubbing the back of her hand on her forehead.

Jays work called me to pick up a few things of his. She tugged at her shoelaces, holding the

tongue closer to her foot. Someone new is coming in and they need the space.

I almost slipped right onto my butt as I ran back across the hardwood floor, rounding the

corner and running up the stairs. Just a sec! I shouted. Ill come with you. This could be a key

area of investigationDads work. Perhaps he has some information in his desk or computer that I

could inspect.

Moms Camry was already backing out of the garage when I returned downstairs. I ran out

the front door and jumped into the passenger side of the car. We drove for about nine minutes,

including stoplights, because CPS4 is only 1.5 miles from our house. Dad mostly walks to work so

that Mom would be able to use the car. Mom played the 70s on 7channel the whole way there. I

noticed more dented fenders than usual on the road, and the air conditioner was on too high, but

4 Commercial Plumbing Service

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neither of us switched it off. We listened to Karen Carpenter, Cat Stevens, and 45 seconds of the

Osmonds before pulling into the parking lot of CPS.

My dads work looks almost like any office building, except that if you go down one floor,

it looks and smells like Home Depot. Bins and bins of metal pipes, faucets, and wiring, stacked

next to rows of toilets, showers, bathtubs, sinks, all made of porcelain, ceramic, plastic, and

stainless steel (although, stainless steel devices are generally only used in prisons, so there are less

steel plumbing devices than other materials).

However, today, Mom and I only stayed on the main floor where plastic wood composite

desks pushed up against each other to form mock cubicles under green tinted fluorescent lights.

Today, only a third of the desks had people sitting at them, answering phones and filing

paperwork. I recognized my dads desk near the glass cubicle at the front. The cubicle belonged to

Dads boss, Jesse Hendrickson. Jesse came out of his cubicle to meet my mom when we walked

into the room.

Hello, Mrs. Gray, Jesse said, scratching his balding head. Im so, so sorry.

Jesse used to hold corporate parties at his house every summer. I remember he gave let me

light off a big firework all on my own. Hed tapped his nose and told me, Youre a big boy. It

was called the Atom, which I now consider to be a fairly offensive name for a firework, but I got to

light it, and I remember it was the coolest set of shapes in the sky. Big stars and I think there was

even a dog that lit up in gold shimmers. We never have parties like that at Jesses house anymore.

Dad said Jesse and Mrs. Hendrickson got a divorce and she took the house with her, so he lived

subsidized housing now south Hillsboro.

Henry!

I looked up into Moms worn out eyes. She nodded over to Dads old desk.

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Get together what you can while I talk with Mr. Hendrickson.

Okay, I said, making my way over to the desk with Celtics flags and pom-poms hanging

off the sides. My dad never lived in Boston, but his dad took him to a game between the Blazers

and the Celtics once when he was in high school and the Blazers were a brand new team. He told

me, Henry, you shouldve seen it! They mopped the floor with us. Everyone walked out of there

all pissed off and stuff, but I loved it. I guess you could say hes a traitor to Portland, but hes

never once waivered in his loyalty to Boston since then, especially when they got Larry Bird.

There wasnt much on Dads desk other than that. Some plumbing contracts half filled out

and his hard hat. But there was a computer. I glanced at Jesses office. Mom was crying and

Jessed handed her a tissue. They probably wouldnt come out for a couple minutes. I sat down in

Dads thinly padded and tapped the keyboard, waking the computer up to a desktop picture of

Mom, Dad, Maggie, and me at Maggies high school graduation.

Hey, a thin voice said from behind the computer.

I jumped a little bit, the chair squeaking under me. Peeking around the computer screen

was a short man sitting at the desk across from me. He had wispy gray hair but a face that looked

like it was made of clay. His wrinkles were set deep in his skin, but his eyes bugged out like two

cloudy marbles fixed under his eyebrows. I wasnt sure whether this guy looked tough or skittish,

but he seemed a little of both.

Hey, the man said again. Youre Jasons son?

I nodded. Yes, sir. I always called Dads work friends Sir because they were older and

Dad says I should respect the blue collared men who fix our toilets.

The man smiled just a little and held out his hand. Im Mr. Kehrer. I worked with your

dad on a lot of jobs.

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I shook Mr. Kehrers hand. It was warm but tough and calloused. He leaned forward a little

bit, peering over at my dads desk. Whatre you doing?

Just looking through some of my dads work information, I said.

Mr. Kehrers bottom lip went right over his top lip like a bitter-beer commercial. Im real

sorry about the accident. His voice sounded even thinner, and the wrinkles in his face stiffened

even more like trenches in his skin. He was a real good guy.

It wasnt an accident, I said, skimming through the list of files on my dads hard drive:

CORP., CLIENTS, GB, GF.

Whatd you say? Mr. Kehrers voice thickened a little bit.

I checked the properties on GB. Grays Bidets. Last opened May 15. Three days after Dad

was killed. My heart snuck up my chest, beating into my throat.

Paul Angel Soft, I whispered.

What?

Mr. Kehrers eyes bugged out even farther. I leaned towards him. Did anyone come in

here after my dad died? I asked. Maybe someone in a newsies cap?

Huh?

I rolled my eyes. So far, Mr. Kehrer hadnt uttered an intelligent sentence in the last two

minutes. I leaned in closer, whispering. Theres this man, I said, keeping Mr. Kehrers bug eyes

fixed in mine. His names Paul something. He works for Angel Soft.

Mr. Kehrers eyebrows mounted high up on his forehead, digging into his hairline. Thats

Paul Ropert.

What? I sat up so quick in the flimsy chair, I almost bent the back of the seat right off.

How do you know him?

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Georgia-Pacific helps supply us with some of our tools and materials for toilets and

piping. Not to mention, Pauls daughter grew up with my daughter. Mr. Kehrer pulled out his

wallet. I glanced back at the computer screen, scrolling through the files under Grays Bidets.

See? I felt a nudge on my hand holding the mouse. A creased and faded picture slid onto

the desk next to my hand of a ten year-old girl with big teeth and a big blue bow in her hair.

Mr. Kehrer looked at the picture himself. Course, shes older now

I touched Mr. Kehrers arm because that supposedly gets peoples attention and lets them

know that youre serious. Was Paul here at all after my dad was killed? I asked.

Hey, now. Mr. Kehrer backed up in his chair. Who said Jason was killed?

I tightened my grip. Did Paul come in here?

Mr. Kehrers hands stuck up like a bank robber surrendering to the cops. Now, son, I

know youre upset and all

I didnt have time to sidestep this conversation. I know my dad didnt die on accident, I

whispered, bending over the desk onto Mr. Kehrers workspace. Ive got proof.

Now, that wasnt exactly true, but I had Toms letters. And I knew someone had stolen my

dads business license and switched it out for an illegitimate one. At any rate, Mr. Kehrers face

changed just a little bit. The lines in his face softened into putty.

He was here a few weeks ago managing some orders from Georgia-Pacific. Mr. Kehrer

flexed his wrist. I realized I hadnt let go of his arm yet. I backed off, putting my hand back on the

mouse. My fingers were shaking. I exited out of GB and clicked onto GF.

Mr. Kehrer scratched his neck. I still dont see how this proves your dad was killed.

Henry.

I stopped scrolling, holding my breath. Mr. Kehrer looked behind me and stood.

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Hello, Mrs. Gray, he said, nodding with a smile that wasnt big enough to look happy.

I turned around, looking up at my Mom. Her arms were folded, but she held a Kleenex to

her nose, dabbing at her nostrils and shaking a little when she inhaled.

Hurry up. She nodded toward the desk. Take all of this with you to the car. I have to

sign a few forms with Mr. Hendrickson.

She walked back into Jesses office. I could see that Jessed taken some papers off of the

printer in the corner of the room, setting them on the table between them. I sat back facing the

computer.

You shouldnt start assuming all these things, son, Mr. Kehrer shook his head from his

desk.

There was a file on Dads computer called Henry. I opened it.

No, I wouldnt go around telling people that.

Dozens of thumbnails filled the screen. They were pictures of me and Dad.

I opened the drawer to the side of Dads desk. Empty. The next second drawer was also

empty. The last drawer had only Dads blue Arctic Zone lunch box. I opened it and found a floppy

disk inside. I laughed. Dads computer was too old for USB drives or CDs. I pulled the disc out

and inserted it into the port on the side of Dads computer, then dragged all of Dads files onto it.

CORP., CLIENTS, GB, GF. It took a few seconds to transfer. I stood and collected all the Celtics

paraphernalia from off the table, holding it in my arms and feeling the light strands of the pom-

poms tickle my chin. When the transfer finished, I took out the disk and buried it between the pom-

poms, deleting all the files off my Dads computer and emptying the recycling bin for good

measure.

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Thanks for your help, I told Mr. Kehrer. He looked up at me without moving the rest of

his face.

Careful, Henry, he said. You shouldnt go making up stories and having people get

upset about it.

I paused, looking down at the load in my arms, then back up at Mr. Kehrer.

You can tell Paul Im on to him.

Mr. Kehrer shook his head. I dont talk to him much.

I blinked. Well if you do see him I straightened up a little. You can tell him that.

Chapter Seven All the Stuff

Since my notebook was at Uncle Toms house still, I had to resort to writing on printer

paper and stapling it together. Thus, my primitively gathered notes of late constituted the following

clues:

- Missing signed business license

This license was motive enough for a toilet paper industry to destroy my dad, but if I could

find a patenting license, thatd be even more motivating.

- Thumb drive from Dads work computer

Unfortunately, not much was on this. Mostly forms and receipts from various jobs my dad

performed throughout the last year. I found this picture of me Id never seen before.

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I also found this picture of my dad and me.

In the GB folder, however, I found several items of interest. The first was password

protected, but I know Dads password to almost everything is Moms birthday, which was the case

for this document as well. In this document were the plans for The Birdpiping information,

water distribution, electrical circuitry for the driers, collective costs for supplies individually and in

mass production. It also included a patenting form issued by the United States Patent and

Trademark Office:

Provisional Application for Patent Cover Sheet

This is a request for filing a PROVISIONAL APPLICATION FOR PATENT under

37 CFR 1.53(c)

The form was dated four months ago. Perhaps a copy of it was turned in for authorization on their

website. I had no idea Dads bidet was so close to finishing its patent process. He never mentions

all the red tape behind The Bird, he just tells me its happening. Id have to keep an eye out for any

response from the USPTO.

- Letters from Dad to Uncle Tom and Aunt Debbie

I found several segments from these letters that are of interest:

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January 24, 1976Got a new roommate this term. We took a class together last fall and

hes absolutely brilliant. Hoping he doesnt annihilate me

All right, the whole sentence said, Hoping he doesnt annihilate me in this program, Im

trying for a scholarship next term. But still, I thought it noteworthy.

March 16, 1976Me and Pauly went to a party at his brothers house and I met a really

groovy chick[yes, my dad said groovy]. Her names Lolly and she goes to Pacific, but she might

transfer out to PSU in the fall! I think Pauly digs her too but shes not his type. He seems a bit too

out there for her, but it might be tricky taking her out.

I was floored when I read this. I had no idea Angel Soft mightve had a thing for my mom!

Could you imagine if shed marriedthe guy? My cheeks couldve stabbed open soup cans, but

thatd be about the only good thing from it. Also, what does it mean that Angels too out there

for Mom? Was he a weirdo? Crazy?

November 6, 1976And Tommy, thanks for letting me bring Pauly to your guyss place

for Thanksgiving. Really means a lot to him with no family to go home to. And dont worry about

last week. Sometimes I think hes got it all together but then he blows up when hes tired and

stressed, so switching to business schools really made him a dick sometimes

I could only speculate what this scuffle was between Angel and Tom or my dad, but itd

had to have been pretty big for my dad to mention it in a letter to Tom. Also, he had no family,

additional statistical evidence that he was a less stable individual, as families constitute 71% of

peoples well-being.5

June 17, 1977Im thinking of staying out here even after my works done. Theres a lot

of work to be done in the Peace Corps in Argentina. If you see Pauly, tell him I hope hes got no

hard feelings about the internship or about Lolly and me. Hoping he comes to your place for

5 This statistic is substantially inferential.

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Christmas, then maybe I can tell him myself. Hes not much of a writer. Oh and Tom, you have to

try these bidets. Im telling you, the Argentinians have it figured out.

Dads told me about this internship. He got to work in Argentina making more efficient

stoves and toilets and other appliances for the locals. Angel might have been jealous of Dads

opportunities in the engineering program. Also, a new development in the investigationAngels

feelings for my momquite possibly contribute a personal motive in addition to motives of

business to this murder.

February 19, 1978Ah, that stupid son of a bitch. He didnt even tell me he was leaving.

I just woke up and all his stuff was gone. Pretty sure he took my can opener.

Now this entry in particular caught my attention. Something happened between my dad and

Angel to make Angel move outin a hurry. So that picture I saw in Toms box was only a few

months before this happened. What could have made Angel so mad that he left?

January 11, 1979I ran into Pauly at a conference last week, totally bogus. He got a job

at Georgia-Pacific. They make paper cups and plates and stuff, but hes doing the business side of

it. I didnt tell him Lolly and I were engaged, but he only talked about work and all. Something felt

a little off about him. He seems less friendly and outgoing, but that could just be me. Still feel bad

about how things went down, but I just did my best and so did he, so what can you do?

I just did my best and so did he. Their best for what? What caused such a rift between Dad

and Angel? Was his internship the first of many jealousies between them concerning Dads

business prospects?

Henry? My mom opened my door, startling me. I dropped my stapled printer paper and

shoved it under the bed, but Mom saw it. I knew she did.

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Sorry, I shouldve knocked. She walked in, kneeling on the carpet next to me. I didnt

say anything, just watched her.

Mom put one hand on my shoulder, rubbing her eyes with her other hand. Her heels had

red sores with bandages over them from her shoes. Her blouse was untucked from her skirt and

wrinkled on the bottom where itd probably bunched up from her sitting at her desk all day.

She was about to say something when she looked down at the ground. Dads letters were

scattered around me.

Whats this? She picked one up. February 19, 1978. Where did you get these? She

looked at me, holding up the stationary.

I could see the collar of my shirt shivering with each heartbeat in my chest I was sure shed

see the sweat on my forehead.

What are you doing, Henry? she asked, tears harvesting on the bottoms of her eyes.

Hearing my mom cry was one thing, but I hated seeing it right in front of me.

I pointed at the floor. Im just looking at all the facts.

Mom grabbed at the letters, crumpling them in her fists and shoveling them together in her

arms and standing up. Stop it, Henry. Her lips shook when she stopped talking, and her face was

pink and wet. Nobody killed him. He just died, he just died, dammit! Her voice caught in her

throat before she could say any more.

I didnt move. My phone buzzed on my end table, but I didnt move to answer it because

Mom was crying in front of me. I looked at the floor, the ceiling. I thought about who mightve

texted me. Maybe Simone or Maggie. What would they want to tell me? Maggie might come home

for the 4th of July. We could go to the beach or the Waterfront and watch all the fireworks from

Uncle Toms boat. Mom sighed. I looked up at her. Shed been staring at me.

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Dammit, Henry.

She walked out of my room and used her feet to shut my door. I wondered if that was

painful because of the sores on her heels, but she didnt seem to notice.

I sat still for a moment, then looked under my bed at my stapled notes. What was I doing? I

didnt have much to go on here and all these investigations were making Mom feel even worse.

Maggies right. I need to take care of Mom and make sure shes recovering from all of this.

I looked back at my end table. Maggie might be asking about her visit for the 4 th of July. I

stood and walked to the table, shaking a little as my feet almost tripped on the strands of wool

carpeting. My phone was still lit. The lock screen showed a number I didnt recognize. I flipped

the phone open to read the message.

Stop poking around or something bad might happen to you.

My chest tightened, feeling shaky and nervous all the way down through my stomach. Holy

crap.

I didnt realize my hands were shaking until I tried to text back to the number. My fingers

stumbled across the buttons, spelling garbled words. I shook my head and slapped myself a couple

times.

Come on, Henry. I had to focus.

Who is this?

My words skated off the screen into the darkness past my window to the man somewhere

out there holding his own phone with hands that killed my dad.

The phone in my hands buzzed again. I opened the screen.

Dont worry about it.

I straightened up, even though he couldnt see me, and texted back.

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Ill fund you.

I sent the message and sat down on the floor, looking over our conversation. I paused, then

texted again.

*find. Ill find you.

Just then, something clacked against my window. I looked up, jumping a little. With the

light on, I couldnt make anything out outside. The clouds were thick outside, making it darker

than it should have been at six oclock. I stood and ran to the switch next to my door, turning it off.

The window lit up from the streetlamp near our driveway. I crouched down, putting my phone in

my pocket, and army crawled to the window. The carpet burned against my knees as I dragged

them under my body.

When I reached the opposite wall, I peered over the ledge of the window sill. The wood felt

cold under my nose and smelled sharp and old at the same time like a musty closet full of cleaning

supplies. I looked down into our yard. A swinging bench sat under our weeping birch, rocking in

and out of its creaky hinges that had rusted in the rain. A bed of tulips my mom had planted in

March but hadnt tended for weeks. They were alive and thriving because of all the rain, but they

grew every direction, bending close to the soil and cramming into each other. The street was empty

except for the cars parked along the curb.

A cluster of birch vines bobbed near my window up and down. I gasped, then held my

breath in, afraid to move. My eyes traveled up the vines to the branch they attached to. Movement.

Something in the branches. I squinted. Someone was in the tree. My throat was too dry to swallow,

but I tried anyway, scraping my tongue against the roof of my mouth. Someone was in the tree. I

watched the dark figure move farther away from the house, towards the other side of the yard, then

disappear into the shadows. I waited, staring into the yard.

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Ah!

My phone buzzed in my pocket, making me jump and hit my nose against the window sill.

Oy. I backed up, cupping my hands around my face to keep my nose from stinging so

much as my eyes watered. I pulled my phone out and flipped open the screen with my other hand.

Stop looking for me.

I looked up, out the window, crawling back to the wall and searching through the birch

branches. The vines swayed back and forth, catching my eyes wherever they flicked about.

Where are you? I whispered. Where are you?

My throat no longer dry, I swallowed, but my spit tasted like metal or the nasty water from

my grandpas faucets in Phoenix. I pulled my hand away, it was dark. I was bleeding.

I dropped my phone, holding both hands to my face and running to my door. The doorknob

slid between my elbows as I tried to turn it open between my arms. Finally I used my chin,

dripping blood down the door, and ran out into the hallway to the bathroom by the stairs. I leaned

over the sink and let the blood drip down into the drain. With the light off, the sink looked almost

black. I looked up at myself in the mirror. My upper lip was covered in blood, like a slimy

mustache.

After Id cleaned my hands and face and stuck two wads of tissue up my nose, I returned to

my room, taking my phone from the floor and leaving without looking back outside. I knew

whoever might have been out there was probably long gone by now.

Chapter 8 Chasing Something Now

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What happened to your face? Simone tried to touch my nose, but I slapped her hand

away. She flopped back onto my bed, tossing my phone onto my pillow. Id just told her the

happenings of the night before.

Well, I thought something was weird here. Simone sat back up again, pulling at her

cheeks so that her eyes looked like a Cocker Spaniels. But I didnt actually expect any guilty

parties.

I nodded and paced back and forth from door to bed. Weve crossed into new territory.

This is. I stopped, putting my hands on top of my head. This is huge!

Simone turned onto her stomach and folded her legs against the wall. Did you text him

back?

He was unresponsive. I paced again, kicking a dirty sock out of my way on the floor. I

think it best that I stay dark for now.

Simone thumbed through my stapled bunch of notes. I stopped.

We need to get my notebook back from Uncle Tom.

Id almost forgotten, the first half of my notes were there and although these new notes are

considerably more useful, Id hate for my first notes to be discovered. Which reminded me.

We have to keep this quiet from my mom. Shed be really upset if she knew this were

happening.

I hadnt seen Mom after shed taken all Dads letters. Shed stayed in her room and didnt

come out when it was time for dinner even though I made grilled cheese sandwiches and Top

Ramen. Growing up, we used to eat that every Sunday when we got home from church because

Mom was tired of cooking all week, so Dad made it and wed always wrap the ramen noodles

around the sandwiches and take a big bite. Its my favorite food after French toast. But Mom didnt

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come down to eat and I was too afraid to knock on her door because she was either sleeping, still

upset with me, or dead and I didnt want to walk in on any of those scenarios last night.

Henry, you still write about your dad in the present tense. Simone turned my notes

around for me to see.

I took the packet from Simone. Well, theyre my notes so I can write them however I want

to.

Chill out, Prometheus. Simone rolled off my bed and stood up. Anyway, I think I found

something about this conspiracy theory.

Really? I rolled the notes up in my hand.

Gray's Bidets so far

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Transcript of Gray's Bidets so far