Here Comes Mr. Trouble

“What do you mean?”

“Never mind. Any one of them is fine.”

He stuck the end of the box over the tip of Eric’s ring finger.

“What are you doing?” Eric asked. “That’s — ow!”

The box had pinched him. He tried to pull his hand back but Uncle Colin held tightly on to it. When he removed the box, Eric thought his finger would be bleeding but there was only the tiniest of scrapes.

“So sorry. Always the most painful part. Everything from this point forward is downhill.”

He pulled a plastic baggie out of his pocket and sealed the small box in it. He then applied some ointment on the scrape and covered it with a Band-Aid. Surprisingly, as soon as the ointment was applied, the pain went away.

“Ah, I almost forgot.” He put a hand on the other man’s back. “This is my brother Carl. Uncle Carl. Again, only if you wish.”

The corners of Uncle Carl’s mouth moved up and down in what Eric guessed was a smile, but his eyes never left the device he was carrying. “Troubling,” he muttered. “Very troubling.”

He moved the box closer to Eric, then began waving it around like it was one of those security wands Eric had seen used at the airport when he’d flown to visit his grandparents the previous summer.

“What’s he doing?” Eric asked.

“Routine. Simply routine,” Uncle Colin said. “Don’t you worry a bit.”

Eric glanced at the plane, wishing the others were still here.

“Hold him still,” Uncle Carl insisted. “Can’t get a clean reading if he keeps moving around.”

“A reading of what?” Eric asked.

“This is merely an initial assessment,” Uncle Colin explained. “Data gathering, that kind of thing. You understand.” The look on his face turned very earnest. “It will help us. You need to believe that. It will definitely help us.”

“Help you with what?”

“Helping you, of course.”

“Got it!” Uncle Carl announced, raising the device a few inches into the air.

“Excellent!” Uncle Colin exclaimed.

Without another word, Uncle Colin and Uncle Carl began walking quickly toward the rear of the plane.

“Wait. Where are you going?” Eric asked.

Uncle Colin stopped and looked back. “Thank you,” he said, his hands clasped in front of him. “And…don’t worry! Certainly don’t worry.” He started to turn away then paused. “Best not to try the pickle soup.” He nodded toward the kitchen and, as he shook his head side to side, mouthed, “Not good.”

Eric was left standing alone.

Who were these people? How had he ever thought this was going to be a solution to his problems?

And pickle soup?

“Hey, are you hungry?”

Fiona was standing on his side of the plane, holding a bowl of something in one hand and waving him over with the other. He hadn’t been eating much since his mother went missing. Not that his dad wasn’t a good cook. Well…he wasn’t, but he was good at ordering takeout. Eric just didn’t have an appetite anymore. Except now, he actually did feel hungry.

Maybe just a little something wouldn’t be so bad.

He trudged across the field and ducked under the plane to the other side.

The kitchen was amazing. It was raised above the ground on solid wooden platforms and consisted of an oven, a stove, a sink, two large reach-in cabinets, and a small refrigerator. Not too far away a generator hummed, giving power to the fridge and the lights.

On the other side of the kitchen, also on raised platforms, was a long wooden table with benches on either side. Above the table was a dark red canvas tent, held in place by several sturdy wooden poles and taut ropes staked into the ground.

Maggie was sitting at one end of the table eating a bowl of ice cream, while at the other end sat another girl hunched over something, her back to Eric.

Fiona was standing near the stove chatting to a woman stirring a large pot of something that smelled… horrible.

“Want some soup?” Fiona asked. “It’s my favorite. Pickle.”

“I, um, think I’ll pass.”

The older woman laughed. “I would pass, too. The only reason I make it is because Ronan and Fiona love it so. The rest of us…” She made a face that conveyed her distaste. Like the two uncles, she, too, had an Irish accent. She seemed about the same age as the men, but that may have only been because she had a few strands of gray in her otherwise brown hair.

“Hey, it’s not that bad,” Fiona protested.

The woman shook her head. “Yes, it is.”

Fiona frowned, then scooped up a spoonful of the soup and stuck it in her mouth.

The woman smiled at Eric. “There’s something special for you in the oven. Be careful you don’t burn yourself pulling it out.”

Something special? he thought. “Okay, thanks.”

He found two potholders on the counter next to the oven and opened the door. Sitting on the top rack was a Hawaiian pizza, his absolute favorite. How had they—

Oh, right. The questionnaire he’d answered on the phone.

He pulled the pan out and put a piece on a plate. He waited until it was just cool enough then took a big bite. Absolutely delicious. Perhaps even one of the best Hawaiian pizzas he’d ever had. He quickly finished the slice then took another and woofed it down, too.

“Don’t your folks ever feed you?” Fiona asked.

“Sweetie, that’s not really nice,” the woman said. She gestured toward the table. “Eric, perhaps you’d like to sit down.”

“Thanks, uh…”

The woman smiled. “My daughter seems to have forgotten to introduce us, hasn’t she? You can call me Mother Trouble.”

Eric cocked his head. “Trouble? I thought that was just a title or something the other guy called himself. It’s really your last name?”

“It’s really our last name,” Mother Trouble said.

Maggie rose from the table, her empty bowl in her hand. “Trouble? Sounds made up to me. Nobody has that as a last name.”

Fiona’s eyes narrowed defensively. “We do. I’m Fiona Trouble. And Mom’s Deirdre Trouble. You’ve already met my brother, Ronan Trouble.”

“You mean Mr. Trouble?” Maggie asked, suppressing a laugh.

Fiona glared. “Only he gets to call himself Mr. Trouble because he’s head of the house now.”

“You’re serious,” Eric said. “You’re the Trouble family?”

“I’m afraid that’s right,” Fiona’s mom said. “It is a bit unusual, I’ll admit that.” She looked at Maggie. “But that’s because you’re right, too. It is made up.”

“Has anyone seen the location report?”

Everyone turned. Mr. Trouble was sticking his head out a window near the front of the plane.

“I repeat,” he said. “Has anyone seen the location report?”

“Dear, isn’t it in the folder?” his mother asked.

“No. It is not in the folder. That, of course, is the first place I checked.” He looked around then leaned down a little, trying to look under the awning. “Keira, is that you?”

The girl at the table didn’t move.

“It’s her,” Fiona said.

“You did put the report in the folder, didn’t you?”

With a huff, the girl at the table — Keira — mumbled, “What do you think?”