Mr. Murder

something. He didn’t smile as quickly or as often as usual, and when he did smile, he seemed to be pretending.

Before he backed the car out of the driveway, he turned and checked on Charlotte and Emily to be sure they were using seatbelts, but he didn’t say “the Stillwater rocket to Mars is about to blast off” or “if I take the turns too fast and you have to puke, please throw up neatly in your jacket pockets, not on my nice upholstery” or “if we build up enough speed to go back in time, don’t shout insults at the dinosaurs” or any of the other silly things he usually said.

Charlotte noticed and was troubled.

The restaurant, Islands, had good burgers, great fries—which could be ordered well-done—salads, and soft tacos. Sandwiches and french fries were served in baskets, and the ambiance was Caribbean.

“Ambiance” was a new word for Charlotte. She liked the sound of it so much, she used it every chance she got—though Emily, hopeless child, was always confused and said “what ambulance, I don’t see an ambulance” every time Charlotte used it. Seven-year-olds could be such a tribulation. Charlotte was ten—or would be in six weeks—and Emily had just turned seven in October. Em was a good sister, but of course seven-year-olds were so ... so sevenish.

Anyway, the ambiance was tropical: bright colors, bamboo on the ceiling, wooden blinds, and lots of potted palms. Both the boy and girl waitresses wore shorts and bright Hawaiian-type shirts.

The place reminded her of Jimmy Buffet music, which was one of those things her parents loved but which Charlotte didn’t get at all. At least the ambiance was cool, and the french fries were the best.

They sat in a booth in the non-smoking section, where the ambiance was even nicer. Her parents ordered Corona, which came in frosted mugs. Charlotte had a Coke, and Emily ordered root beer.

“Root beer is a grown-up drink,” Em said. She pointed to Charlotte’s Coke. “When are you going to stop drinking kid stuff?”

Em was convinced that root beer could be as intoxicating as real beer. Sometimes she pretended to be smashed after two glasses, which was stupid and embarrassing. When Em was doing her weaving-burping-drunk routine and strangers turned to stare, Charlotte explained that Em was seven. Everyone was understanding—from a seven-year-old, what else could be expected?—but it was embarrassing nonetheless.

By the time the waitress brought dinner, Mom and Daddy were talking about some people they knew who were getting a divorce—boring adult talk that could ruin an ambiance fast if you paid any attention. And Em was stacking french fries in peculiar piles, like miniature versions of modern sculptures they’d seen in a museum last summer; she was absorbed by the project.

With everyone distracted, Charlotte unzipped the deepest pocket on her denim jacket, withdrew Fred, and put him on the table.

He sat motionless under his shell, stumpy legs tucked in, headless, as big around as a man’s wristwatch. Finally his beaky little nose appeared. He sniffed the air cautiously, and then he stretched his head out of the fortress that he carried on his back. His dark shiny turtle eyes regarded his new surroundings with great interest, and Charlotte figured he must be amazed by the ambiance.

“Stick with me, Fred, and I’ll show you places no turtle has ever before seen,” she whispered.

She glanced at her parents. They were still so involved with each other that they had not noticed when she’d slipped Fred out of her pocket. Now he was hidden from them by a basket of french fries.

In addition to fries, Charlotte was eating soft tacos stuffed with chicken, from which she extracted a ribbon of lettuce. The turtle sniffed it, turned his head away in disgust. She tried chopped tomato. Are you serious? he seemed to say, refusing the tidbit.

Occasionally, Fred could be moody and difficult. That was her fault, 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, yuch,” 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.