"I give up," Michael said, as we collapsed, panting, on the lawn. "He's too small to do them any real damage; he'll come home when he's tired of chasing them."
It was a long day, and I was dead tired when I got home. Replacing one indistinguishable blond bimbo with another shouldn't be this difficult, should it? Of course, I'd also had to play wise older sister to a depressed, guilt-ridden and very hungover Rob. And deal with Samantha, who was treating me with a watered-down version of the same icy, condescending calm she was using with Rob. Had everyone forgotten, by the way, that Rob was going to be taking his first day of bar exams tomorrow? It would be a miracle if he passed after all this.
A thoroughly rotten day. I stopped to rest for a moment on the porch steps.
The peacocks were crossing the lawn. Actually, I suppose I should say the peafowl, since we had three peacocks and six peahens. I watched with satisfaction. Many things had gone wrong this summer, and many more probably would. I was sure to be blamed for most of them, and some of them would actually be my fault. But the peafowl situation was shaping up nicely. They had settled in. We had found that we could lead them from one yard to another with a small trail of food and more or less keep them in place by putting a supply out. Establishing them in the Brewsters' yard for Samantha's wedding and then reestablishing them in our yard for Mother's would not be a problem. I leaned against the railing and smiled contentedly. Then my contentment was shattered by a voice from the porch.
"I don't suppose you could find some different peacocks," Mother said.
"Different peacocks? I had a hard enough time finding these. What's wrong with them?"
"Only three of them have tails," Mother pointed out.
"That's because only three of them are peacocks, Mother. The rest are peahens."
"Well what do we need them for?" Mother asked. "They don't add anything to the impression. They're not very attractive."
"Maybe not to you, but apparently they are to the peacocks. If we didn't have them around, the peacocks would sulk and wouldn't spread their tails. You know how men are."
Mother digested that in silence. "Besides, one of them's shedding," she said.
"Shedding?"
She pointed. One of the peacocks--the smallest--was beginning to look a little bedraggled.
"I think it's called molting. Either that or he lost a fight with one of the bigger peacocks." Or perhaps Spike had been chewing on him.
"It's not very attractive," Mother said. "What if they all do that?"
"Then we call Mr. Dibbit and get our money back. If you don't like them, we can take them back after Samantha's wedding."
Mother pondered.
"We'll see how they look by then," she said finally, and swept off.
I looked at the peafowl again. were the other two peacocks showing signs of molting? Would they start shrieking during the ceremony? It would probably be a good idea to keep them out of the Brewsters' yard until the day before the ceremony. To minimize the number of droppings on the lawn. That way the guests would only be stepping in fresh peacock droppings. I saw a slight movement in the shrubbery. A small, furry white face peeked out. The kitten was stalking the peafowl. Should I go out and rescue him? Or was it the peafowl who needed rescuing?
The kitten attacked. The peafowl scattered in all directions, shrieking. Mother slammed the front door closed. I sighed. So much for things going right.
Tuesday, July 19
Eric woke me up shortly after dawn to remind me that we were going to the amusement park and ask me if I thought it would rain. I restrained the impulse to throttle him and sent him down to watch the Weather Channel. The weather, alas, was clear, and the other small boys would arrive at seven. So much for sleeping late.
By the time Michael strolled up, looking disgustingly alert for a professed night person, I was inventorying the stuff I'd packed--snacks and games to keep the small monsters happy while getting there, sunblock, dry clothes for everyone in case we went on any water rides too close to closing time, the inhaler A.j.'s mother had provided in case his asthma acted up, a large assortment of Band-Aids, aspirin for the headache I suspected I'd have by the end of the day, and several dozen other critical items.
Hannibal crossed the Alps with less baggage.
"Dad should be by any minute with his car," I said.
"How big is his car?" Michael asked, eyeing our charges.
"It's a great big Buick battleship; we can stuff them all in the backseat."
Eric and his friends were running about shooting each other with imaginary guns and competing to see who could achieve the noisiest and most prolonged demise, and I was watching them with satisfaction.