“Poison ivy?” Tony said. “Oh, man, I get that stuff bad.”
“What should we do?” Graham said. “It’s not, uh, potentially fatal, is it?”
“No,” I said. “You’ll only wish it was.”
Tony was inspecting his shins now, which looked worse than Graham’s.
“Isn’t there anything we can do?” Graham asked.
I closed my eyes. I was perfectly capable of explaining all about poison ivy—how to identify it, how to make sure you washed the urushiol off if you thought you’d touched it, and the limited ways to treat the rash that resulted if you didn’t wash well or soon enough. The idea made me tired.
Besides, why deprive Dad of the chance? He’d actually enjoy it.
“Go see my dad,” I said, pointing to the buffet table, where Dad was explaining something to Lacie Butler—something that required much gesticulating. “Do everything he tells you. In the meantime, don’t touch the rash.”
They raced off. Correction: Tony raced. Graham walked slowly and carefully, as if afraid his legs would break off if he ran.
“What about you?” I said to Bill, the quiet one.
“Stuff doesn’t bother me,” he said with a shrug.
“Lucky you. If you want to keep it that way, try not to bother it. Immunity to poison ivy can wear off at any time.”
He shrugged again. I wasn’t sure whether he didn’t believe me or just didn’t care.
As we ate, we watched the drama on the other side of the yard. Dad shooed Tony and Graham into the barn—for long showers with plenty of Fels-Naptha soap. Dad reappeared with plastic garbage bags protecting his hands, carrying all their clothes into the house for washing. Eventually, Tony and Graham emerged, wrapped in bath sheets, awaiting the arrival of clean, urushiol-free clothes as Dad applied cold Domeboro compresses to their shins and scrutinized the remaining visible skin for signs of inflammation.
Rose Noire’s herbal studies must have uncovered a remedy for poison ivy, for, as we watched, she appeared and handed Tony and Graham steaming mugs of something. Something unusually nasty-tasting, from the expressions on their faces when they sipped. Unfortunately, while my cousin’s herbal concoctions often seemed remarkably effective, she had no idea how to make them palatable. No idea or perhaps no intention—was it a New Age concept or an old wives’ tale, that anything really good for you ought to taste slightly foul?
“Quite a production,” Bill said after a while.
“Dr. Langslow has extensive experience with poison ivy,” Michael told him.
“Especially since my brother, Rob, comes down with a case every year in spite of all Dad’s lessons on how to identify the stuff,” I added.
“Langslow?” Bill repeated.
“That’s our last name, yes,” I said.
“Your brother’s Rob Langslow? The Rob Langslow?”
“You must be a computer gamer,” I said. “Yes, he’s the CEO of Mutant Wizards.”
“Wow,” Bill said. “That’s awesome!”
I wondered how awesome he’d find it if I revealed how little Rob knew about either business or computer programming—so little that his senior staff encouraged him to do anything he liked as long as it didn’t involve showing up at the office until summoned. Things ran better that way. They knew that if they needed him to sign checks, impress clients, or participate in a brainstorming session, they could always track him down with a phone call. Unfortunately, given Rob’s incompetence with cell phones, they’d gotten into the habit of making that call to me.
I knew better than to say anything like that. Besides, it was heartening to see some actual enthusiasm from the previously morose Bill. He even did his Morris dancing with a grim, deadpan face, as if under duress—which was the only way you could get me to participate in Morris dancing, but he was supposed to be an enthusiast.
“Lawyers from Hell is still my all-time favorite,” Bill was saying. “And Ninja Accountant Ducks totally rocks!”
“I’m sure he’d love to hear that,” I said. He probably would. Ninja Accountant Ducks was definitely Rob’s brainchild; I could tell from the title alone. For that matter, as long as the company’s brainstorming sessions included Rob, they continued to produce a steady stream of offbeat ideas for successful products. Whether these ideas came from Rob’s brain or whether his presence merely stimulated in others the kind of freewheeling, outside-the-box thinking that could produce them, I hadn’t figured out. Like most of my family, I was just happy to see Rob gainfully employed. Even the money we’d begun to earn on our Mutant Wizards stock paled beside that.