Dewey Fairchild, Parent Problem Solver

by Lorri Horn

  “No, that’s the thing. She’s really nice and loving. Until she gets all freaked out about germs. Then she’s like some Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Two nights ago, I was out on the porch with Sally Frones, and I give her an innocent kiss on her cheek good night, and Mr. Hyde comes springing out on us, like some crazy electrocuted cat with her hair all on end and a washcloth in her hands, and starts scrubbing our cheeks and lips. I seriously wanted to die.

  “Sally ran home, of course. I don’t even know what to tell her. I’m just going to say my mom has a mentally ill twin. Anyway. You can help, right?”

  “Right,” Dewey nodded with confidence even though he was feeling, for the first time in his long career, a bit of doubt.

  “Let’s talk tomorrow.” Dewey ushered Michael back out the way he came and sat down. He stuck a cookie in his mouth and chewed slowly.

  “Clara, this one is going to take some thought. Hold all my calls.”

  Hyde and Seek

  At eleven years old, Dewey still preferred to climb in bed with his mom many nights and have her read to him before he fell asleep. He liked his parents’ bed. It was so big you could always move around and find an untouched, cool spot. The sheets were softer and more crisp than his own, and there were many more pillows. It just felt inviting and good to be there.

  Sometimes, when his mom was tired and willing, she’d even let him fall asleep in her bed after she read the story to him, and then his dad would carry him back to his own bed. Lots of times, though, he wasn’t tired enough yet and would want to keep reading his own book after she was done, and they’d kiss him goodnight in his own bed.

  That evening, when Dewey came in, his mom was propped up high on pillows reading her own book: How to Parent Your Ten- to Fourteen-Year-Old.

  “That’s funny! Are you reading about how to deal with me?” laughed Dewey.

  “Oh, sure. Laugh it up, mister.”

  He patted her on the head. “Good Mom,” he said.

  She laughed, set her book down on the nightstand, and picked up the book they’d been reading together. She was under about five blankets, so Dewey snuggled under just the top one. After about a page into it, she suddenly stopped reading.

  “There,” she said.

  “What?” asked Dewey, confused.

  “That smell. There it is again. Don’t you smell it? Cookies! Or cake! I’m telling you, the neighbors are always baking something over there. I think we should get to know them better! I need to get myself a cupcake. Or a donut. I need a plate of cookies right now.”

  “Yeah,” said Dewey, trying to divert her attention because she actually sounded serious. “You haven’t baked in a while. How come?”

  “That’s true. It’s been a while.” She set the book down on her chest. “Anything new at school? Any good pillow talk?”

  Pillow talk is what they used to call it when Dewey was younger and would fall asleep with her sometimes. Once the lights were out he’d tell her about things that were on his mind—when the kindergarten teacher had said “shut up” which he knew was a bad word, or when he had eaten ants with Grandpa and wondered if that was OK.

  Right now, though, he didn’t have too much on his mind except Michael’s case, and he actually kind of just wanted to hear what was going to happen next in the story.

  “Would it be OK if you just read a little bit more, Mom?”

  “Oh, sure, honey. Of course.”

  She started to read no more than a line. Then, right in the middle of her sentence, “Don?” she called out his dad’s name.

  She picked up reading again until Dewey’s dad came in.

  “Did you call me? Oh, you guys look sweet. Can I get you something?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact, I need a cookie. Or something. A slice of cake would do. Not ice cream. Something baked. Don’t you smell it? Dewey, want anything?”

  “I’ll just suck on some ice, thanks,” Dewey, having consumed his fill of cookies for the day already, felt ill at the idea of anything sweet right now.

  She picked up the book and read to him until she’d had her way with a big slice of chocolate pie that his dad actually had to run to the corner store to get her. By the time she’d finished the pie and the chapter, Dewey had yawned a six breather—you know, the kind that goes in long and slowly and comes out in six parts, Aaa-uuu-ooo-www-hhh-nnn.

  His dad put his hand on his back and led him in the direction of his room.

  “Bedtime for Bonzo,” he said.

  “Hey!” cried Mom as Dewey walked out. “Kiss, please.”

  He backed up and offered her his sleepy cheek.

  “Night, Sweet-pie.”

  “Good night, Mom.”

  As Dewey lay in his own bed though, he began thinking about the case and found himself less sleepy again. Dewey’s mom read him books that he could have truthfully read to himself, but he probably never would. He liked when she read them to him.

  They’d gotten through the first three Harry Potter books when he was younger and they’d both loved them. But the end of the third one was so scary that Dewey had to ask her to only read it during the day, and so she’d decided that they should wait until he was a bit older to continue with the rest.

  Tonight they were in the middle of reading Tom Sawyer and, while there was a murder, graves, and even a “Potter” of its own, it was nothing by today’s standards.

  Dewey got to thinking about Tom. He wondered what help Tom Sawyer would have needed from Dewey. Tom seemed like he could handle his own affairs. That kid had grit, alright. Dewey loved the part in the story where he takes the blame at school for the book that Becky rips, and then she loves him.

  He wondered if he’d really be willing to get paddled at school just for a girl. He probably would be too scared. He’d rather hide. Just like he was hiding from his mom that the cookies she smelled were his; just like he was hiding from his friends that he was too scared to read Harry Potter but he—hide. Hide! HYDE! Michael had said his mom was like Mr. Hyde. What was she hiding? Was there something she was hiding that explained why she became such a crazy germ freak of a mother?

  Dewey turned on his light and took out his notebook. Michael had said it started when he was three but assumed it was because that’s as far back as he could recall. But maybe something had happened. He had to find out what secret she hid.

  Dewey looked at the clock. It was late. Too late to text. But, he reasoned, Michael could just answer in the morning.

  Hey, Michael.

  He paused to compose and was surprised to get a reply.

  Hey.

  Oh, you’re up! Then he regretted typing out “you’re” instead of “ur”. He didn’t have to look like a doofus to be professional.

  M: Indeed

  D: Here’s what I need you 2 do. Go out 2 lunch with your mom. Special time. Just the 2 of you. I’ll send you with a list of questions to ask her. Be prepared 2 share personal stuff. It will help.

  M: Roger that.

  He fired off a bitmoji of himself in bed that said “Good night.”

  Out, from Michael.

  Now he just had to figure out what questions would get Michael’s mother to open up and share. Yeah. He was going to need help. Maybe his sister could help, but she was just so annoying about any sort of assistance. Clara could help, but she seemed a bit distracted right now. He needed her focused on her post. Seraphina? Sure, why not? Yes. He’d ask her in the morning.

  The Mastermind

  “Well, it’s the least I can do,” Seraphina said, pouring milk over the cookie cereal that Clara was testing out. Small, nickel-sized cookies, three flavors: red velvet, oatmeal with chocolate chips, and ginger snaps, were floating in a round, clear glass bowl.

  “Yummm. This is good,” Seraphina said between bites. “You should sell it!”

  “Nonsense, my dear. It’s
what we do here! I am trying to decide, though, if it’s over the top to serve it with chocolate milk.”

  “I like it this way,” replied Seraphina. “Just plain milk. Too sweet with chocolate, I think,” she smiled, feeling very glad to have her opinion sought on the matter.

  Seraphina only had one class with Dewey that year, and they sat at opposite sides of the U. It was Spanish class. So far, the one thing she’d learned how to say well was “chicle en la basura” which meant “gum in the trash.”

  As opposed to many of her sillier classmates who got reprimanded for goofing off (present CEO of this winning company not excluded), Seraphina was more of what you’d call a silent offender. Her outfits were always just so. Her hair was the sort that looked as if it had never been colored out of the lines. Maybe that’s why it entertained her to be just a little bit less than “just so,” now and again, as she would try to get away with chewing gum hidden between her upper gum line and her teeth or tucked up into her cheek like a chipmunk.

  Inevitably, though, she’d get bored and forget it was there. Then, before you knew it, it was chicle en la basura time. She probably got caught with gum at least twice a week. Other than that one (admittedly repeat) offense, she was, indeed, a model student.

  Seraphina felt pretty honored and excited to be sitting in Dewey’s office, not as a client, but as a resource, eating cookie cereal and offering her opinion on this undercover assignment.

  “I need to get her to talk about memories. So Michael is going to have a special lunch with her. But I need to help him get her to talk. How do you think this might work? What do you think he should say?”

  “Well, why can’t he just ask her about stuff. You know, ‘Mom, how old was I when I first walked?’ That kind of thing. Oh! I know! How about if he asks her to go through his baby book with him. I did that with my mom on my birthday once. That was fun.”

  “Good. Gooood!” Dewey burst out as he clicked a pen against his bottom teeth. “That’s the thinking I needed. Girl stuff.”

  “Dewey. That’s kind of sexist, you know?”

  “Oh. Sorry. I didn’t mean it to sound sexy,” Dewey said, turning three shades of red and completely confounded. “Why would that be sexy?”

  “Hahahaha! No, silly! Not sexy, sexist. You know, prejudiced against women. Why does looking at a baby book have to be girl stuff? I’m just saying th—”

  “Oh. Right. Yeah. Of course. I mean, I guess so. OK, I meant no disrespect. How’s that?”

  “Sure, yeah. Whatever. I’m still here. I think that can work, if your guy Michael can handle pulling it off.”

  “Oh, sure,” Dewey replied before pouring himself a bowl of cookie cereal. “It’s not that hard, I imagine. But then how do we get her to get to the Mr. Hyde part? You know, the part that she’s not talking about all these years. I doubt that’s in the baby book.”

  “Right,” Seraphina said. “So you gotta have him ask questions like, ‘So I walked at ten months. Did I have any big falls?’ ‘Oh, so I got my first tooth when I was six months? Did I bite anyone?’ That kind of thing. He should pepper those questions in along with the good, fun stuff they talk about.”

  “Hmm. I better send Wolfie to record this. This is good. This is better than good. This is great, actually. Seraphina, you are a genius.”

  Seraphina smiled at Dewey and turned three shades of red.