“Okay,” he said. “It’s just that for a couple of weeks, I didn’t even want to look at a pizza, much less eat one. And you know how I love pizza. You’ll get over it.”
Just then we heard a loud crashing noise from above.
“Someone forgot he was in a hammock?” Rob suggested.
“Sounds more like someone taking the back stairs,” I said.
Sure enough, Cousin Bernie stumbled into the kitchen a few seconds later, looking indignant and slightly worse for wear.
“Did you know there are three steps missing right in the middle of those stairs?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “That’s why there’s that board nailed across the doorway with the KEEP OUT sign on it.”
“Someone could kill themselves on that thing,” he muttered. He walked over to the quarter bath and absently reached out to yank on the nearby doorknob, bringing the loose door down on top of himself.
“I’ve got my bag,” Dad exclaimed, as he and Rob leaped to Bernie’s assistance. Dad liked nothing quite as much as the chance to patch up an accident victim, so he was looking quite cheerful.
He also looked different. Obviously I needed caffeine if it took me this long to notice that he was wearing a peculiar brown garment made of damp feathers. Though I was probably responsible for the damp part.
“What is that you’re wearing?” I asked, as he and Rob struggled with the door.
“My costume,” Dad said. He picked up a wad of feathers lying on the floor beside him and jammed it over his head. “I’m a great horned owl,” he said, his voice slightly muffled by the plumage that hid his mouth.
Apparently Rob and Dad had been working at cross purposes. Without Dad’s involvement, Rob finally heaved the door off Cousin Bernie. Bernie popped up, saw Dad, closed his eyes, and lay down again.
“Concussion,” he muttered. “I must have a concussion.”
“Oh, dear,” Dad said. “I hope not. Open your eyes and let me see your pupils.”
“Are you going straight from the sale to an early Halloween party?” I asked, as Dad fished a small light out of his bag.
“Meg!” Dad exclaimed. “The yard sale. Remember how we decided, with Halloween coming up so soon, to make it more fun by offering a discount to anyone in costume?”
“She forgot,” Rob said, as Dad shone the light in Bernie’s eyes.
“It’s on all the posters,” Dad said. “The pupils look fine. How many feathers am I holding up?”
Bernie shut his eyes again and moaned.
“Here,” Rob said. He reached into a grocery bag at his side and handed me a Groucho mask.
I remembered Dad suggesting the costume discount, but I didn’t recall agreeing to it. But what would be the point of complaining? It was on all the posters. Dad would know—he’d made and distributed the posters; one of the few yard sale chores I’d successfully delegated. I put on the mask. The day was bound to bring moments when I failed to keep a polite, friendly expression on my face. Maybe the mask wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
“Where’s the nearest working bathroom?” Cousin Bernie said, popping his eyes open and scrambling to his feet.
“Second floor,” I said. “That way!” I said, throwing myself in front of the door to the unsafe back stairs. Cousin Bernie whirled and ran out toward the front hall.
“Good luck,” I muttered. I glanced over to see that Rob had plopped a slouch hat and a blond fright wig on his head and was beaming happily.
“You do realize that Harpo never speaks,” I said.
He beeped his bicycle horn at me and batted his eyes. Okay, not a bad resemblance, which was pretty odd, since my tall, blond Adonis brother was always considered the best looking in the family and Harpo was—well, Harpo.
“All the SPOOR members will be in costume, each as a different kind of owl,” Dad said. SPOOR—Stop Poisoning Our Owls and Raptors, a local conservation group—was Dad’s new ruling passion.
“So we’ll have a whole gaggle of owls,” Rob said.
“A parliament of owls,” Dad corrected. “You only use gaggle for geese.”
“It’s too dark to see much yet,” Groucho Emma exclaimed, returning to the kitchen. “But it’s going to be simply marvelous.”
Groucho Claude, who followed her in, looked less enchanted. Groucho Meg knew just how he felt.
“A parliament of owls … a murmuration of starlings,” Dad went on. Collective nouns were one of his many hobbies. “A muster of storks …”
“Morning,” said a voice behind me. I turned to see the man who had beaten me to the upstairs bathroom earlier, now clad in jeans and a dark sweater. He strolled over to the coffeepot and poured himself a cup. Then he looked at Rob and Dad, sitting on the floor beside the doughnuts. Rob beeped his horn.