by Adrien Leduc
* * *
“So what did you kids get up to today?” asks Uncle Marty as he trudges up the steps with Troy several hours later, both covered in dirt and mud and looking sweaty and smelly.
“Pretty much the same thing as you,” I say, flashing the palms of my hands to reveal their blackness from the soil.
Uncle Marty smiles. “Oh, did you help Madame Duguay in the garden?”
I feel the colour drain from my face. “No! I spent the day digging in the stupid yard with Josh! Josh thinks there’s treasure everywhere now.”
“Sarah, there’s got to be something old on this property!” he calls from a little ways away where all around him he’s got strewn his finds: rusty nails, tin cans, and old Franc coins.
“Very good, Joshua!” says Uncle Marty, giving my brother a thumbs up. “He’s a natural, isn’t he Troy?”
Troy, brining up the rear and sagging under the weight of several large plastic containers, musters a smile. “Yeah...great...awesome stuff...he’s like his uncle.”
Uncle Marty seems to take this as a compliment because he sticks his chest out as he reaches the front door, startling Madame Duguay who has come to open it for him.
“Goodness, just what do you think this is, scare the old lady day? Come in now and I’d recommend you get those frightening clothes in the wash. Did you know they’ve recently discovered a strain of bacteria that lives in mud and causes flesh-eating disease.”
“Really?” I gulp nervously, now looking anxiously from my soil-covered hands to Madame Duguay to Uncle Marty.
“Why yes, I read it in Reader’s Digest.”
“Oh, now really, Madame Duguay, was it necessary to scare the poor girl with flesh-eating bacteria.”
“Ahhhh, why are we even talking about flesh-eating bacteria!” I squeal, following them into the house.
Uncle Marty sets his bag beside the door and replaces his shoes with slippers.
“Ah, ah, ah, Mister,” says Madame Pauline, her tone admonishing.“Off to the bathroom with you and change out of those clothes, right now!”
I can’t help but smirk at the treatment my uncle’s getting.
“It’s only a bit of mud, Madame Duguay, really.”
“A bit of - you call that a bit of a mud!?”
Madame Duguay looks somewhat annoyed and I can’t help but smile thinking that this is karma for Uncle Marty.