Seriously, Norman!, page 5
He sighed another long sigh and opened the dictionary.
diffident adj : without self-confidence, doubting one’s own abilities
“Boy, oh boy, oh boy, this dictionary seems to know everything,” muttered Norman. “First it tells me about my dad, now it tells me about me. Diffident, I’m diffident. I always knew I was different. But now I’m diffident.”
difflugia n : a protozoan relative of the amoeba but having a shell made of sand grains
difform adj : oddly shaped
diffract vb : to break into pieces
diffuse vb : to pour out and let spread
diffusionist n : one who stresses the idea that bits of culture scatter and mix throughout history
dig vb : to turn ;p, loosen up, or lift out dirt
Norman picked up Alfred the Great. “Alfred the G., get out your boots and shovel. We’re going to do a little digging in my dad’s dirt.”
dig
In the small, muddy front yard of a ranch-style house, Leonard crouched on a patch of last year’s grass, wet and matted, where a circle of sun shone through the still-bare branches of the trees. He pulled a piece of glass from his coat pocket, held it before him, and studied its frosty rectangularness. It was a prism. Leonard rolled it in his hands. He held it to his eye and looked up at the sky and then down at the grass. He scratched his cheek. He held it at arm’s length again, then back up to his eye, peering this way and that along the grass and sticks. Then Leonard placed the prism on the grass and examined the small rainbow of color thrown onto one of last year’s large, pale maple leaves.
“Cool!” said Leonard. “How does it do that?”
“The light is diffracted,” said a voice from somewhere above him.
From his crouch, Leonard leaped—oh, at a guess—between three and four feet into the air, and said, “Eeeyaaah?”
The voice went on: “The light of the sun contains all the colors of the rainbow, each being carried by its own wavelength, shorter on the red end, longer on the violet, which differences, when passing from one medium to another, such as from air to glass and then back to air again, cause a separation of the color bands, which are regrouped and become visible when they strike an object, such as this leaf. It is not unlike a marching band stepping from asphalt to cobblestones, where, let us say, the trombones reach and leave the cobblestones first, becoming separated from the glockenspiels, or conversely. Do you follow me?”
“Who,” said Leonard, now faced around, having twisted himself about as he leapt—not unlike a cat, very much like a cat, in fact—“are you?”
“Balthazar Birdsong, Norman’s tutor,” said the owner of the voice, extending his hand to Leonard. “You may call me Mr. B., if you like.”
“But how did you find me? How do you even know where I live?”
“It might be that I have supersensory, extramaterial powers, or it might be that I am familiar with the Internet.”
“Okay, why did you find me?”
“As you may or may not know, I am behind in my obligations to Norman. I owe, I am in debt to the tune of one tutorial session. But more than this I owe Norman an apology because, though he would not admit this even, I think, to you, his dearest friend, he was disappointed by my absence yesterday, the knowledge of which I acquired through purely human channels, neither supersensory nor Internet—from his mother.”
Balthazar Birdsong paused to let this sink in.
He continued: “So, I thought, what better way to make this up to Norman than to ease myself round to your attractive mid-twentieth-century home, gather you like the wild bloom you are, whisk you by public conveyance to Norman’s abode, press you unto Norman’s bosom, then transport you both, after many tearful yelps of joy and forgiveness toward myself, again by public conveyance, to my domicile, perched on a high floor in an apartment dwelling of our fair city, for a cup of tea.”
Leonard stared a bit.
“How’s about it?” said Balthazar. “Go ask your mother.”
Leonard wasted little time worrying about the oddness of his visitor or the strangeness of the circumstance. A day with his best buddy was a day with his best buddy and should not be missed. He ran into the house, returning to the door with his mother, who extended a firm, fact-finding hand to Balthazar, who offered his with a smile.
She said, “Norma has told me about you. You’re sure it’s no trouble?” still sizing up Balthazar B.
“No trouble at all, Mrs. Piquant,” he said. “May I compliment you on your beautiful home?”
“Thank you.”
“Nineteen fifty-three, perchance?”
“Fifty-seven.”
“Ah, of course. Natural redwood siding?”
“Naturally. I could never have fake siding.”
“Certainly not.”
Mrs. Piquant paused before saying, “Okay. Mind that you have Leonard back by dinnertime.”
“Of course, Mrs. Piquant.”
Quickly hugging his mother around the middle, Leonard dashed back into the yard, grabbed his prism, then, shouting “Bye, Mom!” over his shoulder, ran in pursuit of Balthazar Birdsong, already in full stride toward the sidewalk.
* * *
Norman, meanwhile, sat at his desk staring at the Es.
entropy n : the perpetual tendency of things to become disorganized
epoch n : a new beginning, a memorable time
epoche n : a way of studying observable things in which one does not care whether a thing exists or can exist as the first step in observing the thing
epollicate adj : thumbless
epomophorus n : a kind of fruit bat
eponge n : a soft woven fabric with an uneven look
eponychium n : the quick of a nail
eponym n : the thing or person for which some other thing is named
epopt n : someone who has learned a secret system
“Epopt,” said Norman to himself. “Hmm, sounds like something I’d like to pop up as. I think I’ll go dig for some secrets.” A twinkle, not unlike his father’s own best feature, began to form in his eyes.
The hall was quiet outside the study door; the only sounds came from the kitchen, where Norman’s mother chattered on the phone.
Would the door be locked? It was not. Norman eased the door open and slipped himself inside. Quickly he glanced to his right to see if by chance the Alfurnian foreign minister had returned with his terrible hat. No, the room was unoccupied. Since that last visit, he could see that it had acquired a condition of mild to extreme—what was the word? “Entropy,” that was the word.
It looked like the place had been hit by a proper bomb, possibly dropped by the toy B-29, which still buzzed eerily overhead. Norman set Alfred the Great down on the loose papers flooding his father’s desk.
“Alfred,” he said, “show some greatness. Dig for clues.”
Norman wandered around the room. He opened the bottom drawer of the right-most filing cabinet. It was full of files, files filled with incomprehensible papers.
He tried the safe. This was locked.
Norman returned to the desk.
“Anything?” he asked Alfred the G.
Alfred the Great stood on a pile of fast-food wrappers, junk mail, newspapers, and magazines.
Norman pulled out one of the magazines, Bombing People. He glanced inside. “The one hundred most beautiful bombers.”
“Hoo boy,” said Norman. “Oh wow, a B-29.”
Under a stack of Chinese food containers, Norman spotted something extra glossy. Gingerly, he pulled it out.
“Hmm, L. L. Bomb. Let’s see what they’ve got on sale. Light bombers. Heavy bombers. Bombers for special occasions. Limited Edition bombers. Bombers De Luxe.”
Norman paged ahead idly and was preparing to toss the catalogue back on the desk when an envelope slipped from between its pages onto the floor. He picked it up. It was a letter to his father from someone named N. T. McSweeney. The envelope had been roughly torn open on one end. Norman eased out the yellow paper folded within and was preparing to study it when he sharply jerked his head up.
“Alfred, did you hear something?” Norman thought Alfred had heard something. There it was again: a faint clatter against the house.
* * *
In the Normann backyard, Leonard said, “I can’t understand it. He’s usually so on the ball when I throw things at his window.”
“Perhaps he is lost in thought,” said Balthazar. “Try shouting.”
“Norman!”
* * *
Norman hastily stuffed the paper back into its envelope and then into his own back pants pocket, and grabbing Alfred the Great, he glided to the French doors and listened.
Norman leaned slowly forward and, peering out, saw the most welcome sight he could imagine: Leonard, up to something, and in the background, Balthazar Birdsong. Unlocking the doors quietly, he eased himself out and then crouched behind a bush.
“Hey!” he shouted, jumping into the yard.
“EEEEyaah!” yelled Leonard, leaping back. “Where did you come from?”
“Oh, around,” said Norman, giving Leonard the raised and fluttered eyebrow-signal to indicate Tell you later. “What are you doing here?”
“I’ve been kidnapped by Mr. B., and now he says we’re going to kidnap you!”
“Hey!”
“Are you prepared to come with us?” called Balthazar Birdsong.
“Hey! I mean yes!”
“I’ve already spoken with your mother and she said, ‘Well, it means he’ll miss our favorite program, Health Tips for the Home, but so long as he wears his mittens,’ et cetera, which I take as her permission.”
a firm foundation
“The trip to my beautiful abode requires that we take not only a public omnibus but subterranean locomotion as well, which I am sure you will both enjoy,” said Balthazar Birdsong.
“I’ve ridden the subway tons of times,” said Leonard.
“I’ve never ridden the subway,” said Norman. “My mother thinks it’s unsafe. In fact, if she knew we were traveling by subway, she probably wouldn’t have said yes, but I guess she trusts you.”
“Please desist from looking quite so skeptical when you say that, Norman. Of course she trusts me. I am trustworthy. I practically define the term.”
“Then why didn’t you show up yesterday?” said Leonard.
“Ah, your quick mind has caught me out, young Leonard. Well then, your going with me will simply have to be a leap of faith on both your parts,” he said as he himself leapt nimbly up the two steps of the just-arrived B22 bus. “Come along, boys.”
Seated at the back of the bus, Balthazar Birdsong continued: “But to return to the question of trustworthiness, you, Norman, and you, Leonard, may always trust me to act in your best interests and to be honest and fair. Perhaps I will be found to be missing now and again, if you will pardon my rather baroque turn of phrase. Perhaps my methods will seem to you mysterious from time to time, if not, indeed, pointless.” Balthazar Birdsong lifted a needling eyebrow in Leonard’s direction. “Nevertheless, your best interests will always be to me as a rock, like the foundation of a mighty edifice, in this case the edifice of your proper education.”
The bus took a great right-hand turn, over or through a number of deep potholes, throwing all three to the left and then up.
“Mind you,” he said, righting himself, “to establish a firm foundation, sometimes one has to blast through several surface layers of soil in order to get an anchor into the bedrock,” and all three bounced in their seats again.
Balthazar Birdsong looked out at the passing scene for a moment, homes and storefronts, tall gloomy metal lampposts, telephone poles with tattered bits of paper and rusty staples, while Leonard glanced quickly over at Norman, asking two quick questions with his eyes: “Is he crazy?” and “Are we in terrible danger?” Norman answered with an “I-think-it’ll-be-all-right” smile.
“For instance,” said Mr. B., “let’s do some blasting. Rather, let me drill an exploratory core into your crusts to see what I can build upon. Leonard, can you tell me exactly what your mother was wearing this morning when we parted?”
“Umm, she was . . .” said Leonard.
“Norman, what about your mother, what was she wearing?”
“Well, I mean. She was . . .” said Norman.
“That’s easy, my mom was wearing . . .” said Leonard.
Norman said, “My mother was wearing . . .”
“She was wearing clothes,” said Leonard.
“Yes,” said Balthazar. “What kind, what colors, what were they made of, how did they smell, these clothes?”
“Uh, ah.”
“Fine. Norman?”
Norman looked up and looked down and bit his lip, and then said nothing.
“Very interesting. Yes. Here I have next to me two boys, each, presumably, loving his mother, holding her in the highest esteem, and yet neither of whom can tell me what his mother is wearing today, even though each boy saw his mother not longer than one hour ago.”
“No, no, no,” said Norman, “my mother was wearing . . .”
“My mother was definitely wearing something red,” said Leonard. “Blue? I think it was green?”
“Yes. Yes, your surface strata would appear to be very porous indeed. Swamplike, even. A quagmire, no solid ground anywhere. Perhaps a few muddy tussocks of dry grass poking up from the slimy ooze, but more than that I don’t see.”
Turning away from the boys, he looked out the window once more. “Not enough solid ground on which to build even a pixie house . . .”
Leonard and Norman sat, giving each other silent looks, as the bus rattled on.
“Do not despair. You are no worse off than ninety-nine percent of your peers and neighbors. We will begin the blasting and digging process almost immediately. But first, and for the record, I shall enlighten you as to what your mothers are wearing right now, unless for some reason they have altered their attire, but then, why would they alter their attire? Leonard, your mother is wearing a blue-and-white mock turtleneck sweater, of wool, not so smooth as Italian, I don’t think, more scratchy, Icelandic, perhaps. Did you not find it scratchy when you hugged her around the middle?’’
“It was scratchy,” said Leonard with a half frown on his face, rubbing his cheek.
“To complete the ensemble, Leonard, your mother wore clean blue jeans and gray canvas sneakers without laces. She wears a Mickey Mouse watch.”
“That’s my mom!” said Leonard.
“Norman, have you come any closer to memories of your mother?” Mr. B. went on.
“She was wearing her red, shiny-smooth bathrobe, wasn’t she?”
“Very good, Norman. Yes, she was wearing her dressing gown. However, it was yellow, not red.”
“What?”
“Yellow, not red.”
“Really? Does she have a red one?”
“Quite possibly. But today, I assure you, her dressing gown was yellow.”
“Gosh.”
“So you see—ah, excuse me, the next stop is ours—so you see, your next assignment, and, Leonard, you may join in this as well, is simply to take note of what the person with whom you are speaking is wearing. And perhaps it will be best if you begin with your mothers.”
The bus came to a halt.
“Here we are, everybody out.”
Balthazar, Norman, and Leonard stepped out of the back door of the bus; then, the boys following their tutor, they passed a few shops to the corner, turned left, then climbed a long flight of iron stairs and passed through a set of turnstiles onto the station platform.
“As you will have noticed, at this station our subterranean train is actually supraterranean. Perhaps we should call it the supway instead of the subway. It is curious to consider that the stem of the p of ‘sup’ descends, and the stem of the b of ‘sub’ ascends, yet each prefix means the opposite. This is reminiscent of . . .” But Balthazar Birdsong’s words were lost in the roar of the arriving subway or, if you prefer, supway train.
Having seated themselves comfortably in a row, Mr. Bird-song continued. “While we are traveling, you might as well get started on the Fs.”
“But I’ve just started the Es.”
“Good heavens, but it’s already April. Here, I’ve brought along a dictionary.”
Leonard and Norman slumped forward a bit on the train bench and opened the book.
* * *
The train rumbled along and, having crossed a bridge, entered a tunnel into the first of Manhattan’s many hills, becoming a proper subway after all. Balthazar Birdsong appeared to doze. Norman slid the piece of yellow paper, which he had pulled from his pants pocket, onto the open dictionary, smoothing and then quietly unfolding it. The two would-be epopts inclined their heads to it and read the following message:
Norman looked at Leonard and Leonard looked at Norman.
the maestro
“Huh?” said Leonard. “What does it mean?”
“What does what mean?” asked Balthazar Birdsong, turning to him as the train rattled along.
Norman hastily crumpled the piece of paper into his palm.
“Come, let us take a look,” said Balthazar, lifting the dictionary from Norman’s lap. He read:
firing squad n : a group carrying out a death sentence by shooting
“That seems rather straightforward. Let us hope that you and your loved ones shall be spared one.”
firk vb dial. Brit : to jerk, twitch, fidget, fuss
“As in ‘Norman, don’t firk so.’”
firkin n : a variably sized wooden cask
firlot n : an old Scottish volume measure equal to ¼ boll or from ½ to 1½ Winchester bushels
firmament n : the dome of the sky
“Just the word I was looking for. Ah, here we are,” said Mr. Birdsong, nodding toward the doors. The boys looked out as the train slowed enough for the flickering station signs to be read: 107TH STREET.
