Anyway, Uncle Carl hadn’t heard from the taxidermist in two weeks, but he went to the spelling bee anyway. It was there that Birdie’s teacher approached him about the missed double-makeup meeting and Birdie’s absences. I don’t know exactly what happened because Uncle Carl was standing at the back of the auditorium and I was up near the front with Birdie.
All I remember is Uncle Carl yelling, “Excuse me! Who are you? Nurse Ratched or something?” Then there was all this commotion and Birdie’s teacher called Uncle Carl unreliable and a poor guardian and that she would report him and then there was more shouting, this time from other parents, and Uncle Carl kicked a chair over and then stormed out. Birdie didn’t want to go on stage after that and we went out the side door and walked to Uncle Carl’s apartment alone.
The next day, Patrick came over so they could discuss some things. They were gone for most of their discussion, but when they came back I heard them arguing as they got out of Patrick’s truck. Uncle Carl pointed at Patrick, saying that all we needed was a little help and a little time, both of which Patrick never wanted to give in the first place.
But Patrick just shook his head, his hands on his belt. “I already told you, Carl. It’s too late. The teacher reported the truancy. She made sure of it after you threw a chair at her.”
“Well excuse me for caring about the kids’ feelings.” Uncle Carl threw up his hands and then headed toward the stairs. Patrick drove off in his truck.
Marlboro came back from the taxidermist a week later and we moved in with Patrick three days after that.
• • •
I knock on Uncle Carl’s door again, and Rosie’s bellowing voice in her British accent calls out from the street. “He’s not there. Said he was headed to Social Security. Went to buy lotto tickets more like it.”
Rosie is the love of Uncle Carl’s life, his sort-of girlfriend. You know the kind of person you can’t help but like even when they are completely opposite of you? That’s Rosie.
“Social Security’s not open on Sunday,” I say.
“That’s what I said, but he just got on that stupid bicycle and disappeared.” She rolls her eyes. “And he wonders why I keep saying no. Ha!” About once a month, Uncle Carl asks Rosie to marry him. She turns him down every time.
“Come, then,” she says, waving us down to the curb to her truck. “I’ll make you some lunch. I’ve got some new ones to show you.”
Rosie owns the Quesadilla Ship—the best (and only) food truck in town. The truck’s old—it was the only thing she could afford when she left England ten years ago to take care of her mom, who has some kind of cancer and also some condition where she forgets things a lot.
She climbs inside the lime-green truck and we wait at the ordering window. With a flick of her wrist, she slaps a couple flour tortillas on the griddle and her eight bracelets ring together like bells.
Rosie wields the spatula like a wand. “Wow, look at that fantastic hair. Janet got ahold of you, looks like. Now pick your poison. You can try my new garlic fresco quesadilla. It’s hot off the presses, that new recipe.” Her smile is so big it’s about to break her face.
“Sure, I’ll try it,” I say, because I always try Rosie’s new recipes.
“Just a regular for me,” says Birdie.
A Birdie Regular is a quesadilla with Colby Jack cheese and salsa, with avocado and sour cream on top. I guess Birdie’s ordered it enough times that now it’s “regular.”
Rosie winks, her green eye shadow flashing at me. I’ve never seen Rosie without eye shadow and she always lays it on thick, making it stand out against her brown skin.
“Birdie boy, when are we going to have another sewing session?”
I wonder if she’s going to mention how we live a million miles away now.
Birdie looks down and shrugs his shoulders. “Soon, hopefully.”
An employee from the Stop-and-Go walks up to the ordering window and asks for a Tomato Onion Sizzle.
Birdie and me sit down on the curb. He holds out his hand and watches an ant crawling around his finger until it reaches his pinkie, which has light purple polish shining in the sun.
“Do you think this color is nice? I kind of wish it was darker,” says Birdie.
“It’s because you didn’t put on two coats.” I know this from the one and only time Rosie did my nails. I rub his nail with my finger and he snatches it away after a couple seconds. He knows how to make polish darker. Mama taught him.
Mama had a whole set of nail polish, which she kept lined up on her dresser like a little nail polish army. Birdie used to always rearrange them into rainbow order.
For the first time I wonder what happened to all her polish. Is it still lined up along the back of her dresser? Packed up in a box? And would a place like Patrick’s be easier for Birdie if he had a nail polish army?
He squints at the ant. “Maybe I should take up ant farming.”
I wonder if he notices that he’s doing it again, that thing where he says the things Mama used to say. She was always telling us how she should “take up” some new activity.
Suddenly, there is a screech of bicycle brakes.
The wind gusts and Uncle Carl half jumps, half falls off his bike and lays it down on the asphalt in front of us. He’s got a bag from Yum Yum Donuts in his hand and a little box that says Shasta Cupcake Company tucked under his arm. He’s wearing jeans and a collared
