The Real Macaw(93)

I tiptoed over to the chair, carefully set my purse on the floor beside it, and sank gratefully into the seat, ready to relax.

“Pffffffffft!”

The chair emitted a loud, prolonged noise that sounded for all the world as if an elephant had broken wind.

Startled, I bolted out of the chair.

“What the hell was that?”

I glanced down at my grandfather, who was glaring at me with one open eye.

“It wasn’t me,” I said. “It was the chair.”

“Hmph!” He closed the eye again and settled back into his pillow.

I glared at the chair, and then gave it another try. Instead of slumping into the chair, I sat down slowly and carefully, easing my weight more gradually onto the seat.

“Pfffffffffff!”

This time, the farting noise was softer, but a lot more prolonged. Grandfather made a growling noise but didn’t say anything.

I got up again and examined the chair. Had someone hidden a whoopee cushion in it? Rob liked that sort of thing, and I knew from the evidence of the little video camera that he’d been here. But there didn’t appear to be any place to hide a whoopee cushion. A small crack in the faux leather was probably the culprit. The chair was making those annoying noises all on its own.

I tried sitting down again. This time I gripped the chair’s arms and lowered my body with excruciating slowness. Even with the upper body and arm strength I had from my blacksmithing work it was a grueling process, but I congratulated myself that I’d eliminated nearly all the noise.

I was about ninety percent lowered when my grandfather spoke up.

“Just sit, dammit,” he snapped. “Hell and damnation! It’s like listening to someone torture a balloon.”

I sat. But unless I sat perfectly still, the chair seat continued to make indecorous noises. It squeaked when I crossed my legs. It hissed when I leaned over slightly to see if Grandfather was asleep. Bending down to get something from my purse produced a miniature encore of the original breaking-wind noise. I gave up.

“If you’re awake when Dad comes back, tell him I went down to the cafeteria,” I said, softly enough that Grandfather wouldn’t hear me if he was asleep.

“Hallelujah,” he muttered.

I stopped outside his door to scribble a note for Dad and tuck it behind the metal room number plate on the door. Then I headed for the cafeteria, which was on the ground floor at the other end of the hospital. It probably wouldn’t be serving hot food at this hour on Sunday night, but the vending machines would be working. And if I picked a booth that emitted unseemly squelching noises when I sat down, no one would care.

I had to turn on the lights when I arrived. The buffet section was empty and scrubbed so well it shone. But there was a large bank of vending machines. I decided on hot tea.

I settled back into a booth to drink it. I closed my eyes and took a few of the deep relaxing breaths I’d learned in yoga class. This was definitely one of those moments Rose Noire kept talking about, when instead of being bored and fretful, the wise person relaxed and turned what could be wasted moments into a relaxing mental haven. For once, there was no one here demanding anything of me—if you didn’t count Dad asking me to cool my heels until he was ready to be chauffeured home. The boys were safely asleep, with enough milk stockpiled to feed them if Dad took longer than expected—always a strong possibility. No one was asking me to feed, groom, walk, or clean up after an animal. If she were here, Rose Noire would probably have attempted to lead me in a few restorative yoga poses, but thank God she wasn’t, and I could enjoy this rare moment of total peace and quiet in my own way.

After about ten breaths, I opened my eyes and looked around for something to do.

I fished in my purse to find that once again the fat paperback mystery I’d been working on since the boys were two weeks old wasn’t there. I’d probably left it on my bedside table. I’d been reading myself to sleep with the opening page of chapter three for the last week.

No book, but I did find Rob’s little pocket video camera. I turned it on and began figuring out how to use it.

Not hard. Not that I expected it to be, since my mechanically inept brother seemed to have no difficulty using it.

I sipped my tea and started at the beginning of the camera’s memory. Lots of pictures of Rob’s feet. One long sequence showing the corner of the refrigerator while Rob and Rose Noire tried to figure out why the camera wasn’t on. Their dialogue was muted, but audible in the silent, empty cafeteria.

“Wait a minute!” he said. “It’s been on all the time! Great!”

“Do you know how you turned it on?” Rose Noire asked.