by PAMELA DEAN
Ted’s mother said, in a tone he recognized, “We’ve decided to emigrate. We’re staying with Kim and Alan until we find a house.”
“Postcards,” said Ted’s father. “We’d better write a series and have Kim mail them at intervals—if she will.”
“Patrick will,” said Laura.
“Yes, of course. You two had better write some too. Friends, relations, teachers.”
“Another list,” said their mother. “People you don’t want to have worrying about you. We mustn’t disappear. We must move to Australia and gradually lose touch. Will Patrick mail postcards for a year and a half? It would take that long, really.”
“Patrick will follow a schedule until Armageddon,” said Ted’s father.
“What are we going to do down here to earn money?” said their mother.
“I could help Kim with the farm,” said their father, dubiously.
The rest of the family burst out laughing.
“You’re doing it wrong,” said Ted. “What have you always wanted to do? Tell them you’re doing it.”
“Live where everybody talks like Shakespeare,” said their mother, not laughing at all.
“What’s your second choice?” said Ted.
“Cartography,” said his mother, promptly.
“Does Australia need cartographers?” said her husband.
“The Hidden Land needs them,” said Fence.
They had forgotten about him.
“Well, that’s a relief,” said Ted’s mother. “I don’t imagine being a parasite in a magical kingdom is any pleasanter than being one anywhere else.”
“They’re musicians, Fence,” said Ted.
“That’s well for us. Doth Australia need musicians?”
“Tell ’em you’re taking some courses in computer programming,” said Laura.
“They won’t believe it,” said her father.
“Sure they will. They’ll say, well, finally, he’s fulfilling his potential,” said Laura, rolling the phrase on her tongue with a scorn Ted had not known she was capable of.
There was a great deal more to be said, but it was of a far less awful and enervating nature than what was going on in the next room. Ted was only surprised that somebody or other had not run out in a fit of hysteria or rage or both. But nobody did; and when Ted and Laura and their parents, trailed by Fence, cautiously opened the door and walked back into the dining room, the other half of the Carroll family was quiet, if tear-blotched, and actually looked at them inquiringly. Randolph was the only person present who had not, clearly, been crying; and he looked worse than those who had.
“We’re all going back,” said Ted into the stuffy air. “All four of us.”
“And we are, all two,” said Ruth, foggily.
“I’m staying,” said Ellen, with great clarity.
Her father put out an arm and gathered her in; Ted’s Aunt Kim closed her eyes with her fingers and leaned on the table, saying nothing.
“Somebody,” said Ellen, “has to keep Patrick in line.”
“Mother?” said Ruth, “I’d be going to college in a few years anyway.”
“What you have to do,” said Ellen, her cheerful voice beginning to clog up, “is figure out a way around this idiotic prohibition so everybody can come to the wedding.”
“I don’t see,” said Ted’s Aunt Kim, from under her hand, “that there’s anything we can do or say that we haven’t tried. If you’re going, Ruth, you’re going. You’re too old to be ordered.”
“Ellen,” said Ruth, “don’t do this for me.”
“I’m not,” said Ellen. “I liked it there; but I like it here.”
And that, thought Ted, was perfectly true. Ellen made the best of whatever place received her. He looked at his sister, who was staring at Ellen, stricken.
“Margaret’s nice,” he said to her.
“Margaret’s a demon,” said Laura.
“So is Ellen a demon,” said Ruth. “You’re just used to her.”
“I’m starting to get in your way, Laurie,” said Ellen.
“That’s stupid!” said Laura.
Ellen just looked at her. Ted didn’t think it was stupid. As Laura became less of a mouse, Ellen wouldn’t know what to do with her; Ellen had had eleven years of hauling around her terrified, clumsy cousin. No doubt they would have managed if they had stayed together; but there was no need to say that now.
“What,” said Ruth’s mother, with somewhat more energy, “are we going to tell people?”
“The four of us,” said Ted’s mother, in that same familiar tone, “are emigrating to Australia. Why don’t we settle in Sydney, and take Ruth with us, Kim, because being stuck out in the middle of nowhere doesn’t agree with her?”
“My English teacher’ll worry,” said Ruth, suddenly.
“Write her some postcards,” said Ted’s mother. “Though I don’t know who’s to mail them from Sydney.”
“I will,” said Ellen. “Mom can take me when she goes shopping. I can write some for you too, Ruthie; I can imitate your handwriting.”
“Oh, yeah?” said Ruth, without much force.
“What are you doing about your house?” asked Ruth’s father, who had been hanging about the edges of this discussion with the expression of somebody who likes Bach but has been inveigled into attending a heavy-metal concert. Ted’s parents explained it to him, with relish, adding details as they went along, and finally got him occupied making a list of which of their books he wanted.
“Fence,” said Laura, “doesn’t this add up to an awful lot of lies?”
Both her parents looked around; they knew the force of that argument. Fence quirked the corner of his mouth, and then grinned. “Just this once,” he said, in excellent imitation of Ruth, “call it sorcery.”
There was a silence. Ted counted up the good-byes there were to be said, and was not sure he could manage it.
“Are you in a hurry,” said his Aunt Kim, rubbing her eyes, “or will you stay and eat something with us?”
“Yes,” said Ellen, looking over her father’s encircling arm at Laura with a very private and rather wavery smile, “have some cornflakes before you go.”