The Problim Children

by Natalie Lloyd

  House Number Five was probably the strangest house of all. Over the years, it had been remodeled and reshaped so much that nobody remembered its original form. In places it almost looked like a pirate ship, with planks extending from different windows and levels. Other parts of the house cantilevered over the yard of House Number Seven. It was as if Number Five was reaching for the house next door, trying to grab it or see what was inside.

  But House Number Seven only looked sleepy and old. The roof was a mess of flaky gray shingles. The house had been painted a lovely blue once, but now the paint chipped and peeled like dead skin. Boards covered the tall windows, to keep them from blowing out in the windy storms. The wrought-iron gate around the house was tall, locked, and overgrown with wild strands of ivy. The ivy was creeping up the front of the house now too—as if it were determined to keep it safe from everything about to happen.

  After seven years vacant, House Number Seven was finally up for auction.

  And there was one woman in the town of Lost Cove who was determined to have it. No one really doubted she would get it. She was already waiting to bid, of course. She’d been near the gate for hours, watching the crowd gather from behind dark, oversized sunglasses. Her lips held the tiniest hint of a smile. Not a kind smile, though.

  The squirrel narrowed its eyes at her.

  Squirrels always know a villain when they see one.

  Desdemona

  Desdemona O’Pinion pushed her sunglasses up higher on her nose and tapped her long red fingernails together. An unseasonal chilly wind had blown in from the sea, ruffling her hair. The air today felt cold and wet and perfect for house smashing.

  Not that she planned to smash it . . . yet. First she wanted to get inside it. Explore for a while. Find what she was looking for. What she’d always been looking for: a map. One that would lead the way to riches untold. Desdemona would find it.

  Then she’d wreck the place. Every last trace of it.

  Ten more minutes and that wretched piece of property would be hers.

  After all these years . . .

  “Can we go now, Mom?” Desdemona’s daughter, Carley-Rue, sighed and fidgeted and groaned. Carley-Rue, age ten, had been the reigning princess of the Little Miss Lost Cove Corn Dog Festival for the past three years. She wore her tiara and sash everywhere she went—to school, to church, to take her cat for walks. (Carley-Rue’s cat, Miss Florida 1987, was a rare Himalayan Adventuring Cat.)

  It never hurts to remind people that you are important, Desdemona would say when Carley-Rue complained about the itchy crown. It’s why Desdemona had insisted on keeping her maiden name: O’Pinion! And why she insisted her children did as well. O’Pinion was a name that meant power. As if anyone in town could forget the O’Pinions were important. They owned everything they wanted. (And they wanted almost everything.)

  Desdemona rested her hands on her daughter’s shoulders. Firmly. “No more grumbling, Rue Baby. We’re about to own this big, ugly eyesore of a house. And then you know what we’ll do?” Desdemona smiled sweetly. “We’ll pull this place apart, board by board, brick by brick, and see what’s inside it!”

  Lightning bolts of excitement zinged inside Desdemona’s chest as she looked up at the old mansion. “There’s no house in the world like this one.”

  Desdemona’s teenage son, Will, stood beside his sister with a CosmicMorpho 3030 Mask covering his eyes. Unfortunately, the internet connection was terrible outside, so he kept yanking his head trying to get the mask to work. “Ugh, Mom! I’m going back to my room.”

  “Not yet. I want us all to be here to witness this moment. Why don’t you take that thing off so you can see?”

  Will pushed his mask into his hair and groaned. “What’s to see? It’s the same old house next door.” And then he raised his eyebrows as seven sleek black SUVs pulled onto the street and stopped.

  Carley-Rue fluffed her hair. “Is the president coming to see us smash the house?”

  “Read what the cars say, idiot,” Will told her. “They’re from something called . . . the Society for the Protection of Unwanted Children.”

  “They might not be necessary,” Desdemona said, patting Carley-Rue’s shoulder. “I like to think of them as . . . insurance. Just in case anything funny happens today.”

  She had no time for funny, after all.

  She only had time for wonderful.

  She’d build a private clubhouse on that lot, complete with a lagoon-style swimming pool, a bocce ball court, and a private latte station. Soon . . . SOON. That word had never sounded so lovely. She almost laughed out loud just thinking about it.

  The steady buzz of chatter grew louder as the mayor of Lost Cove parked his old Ford pickup in the street, behind the SUVs. He made his way toward the gate surrounding Number Seven Main Street, shaking hands with a few folks as he passed by. “G’morning, friends.” He nodded to the gathering crowd. He tucked his thumbs into the pockets of his jeans and looked down. Mayor Wordhouse was a small, scrawny man with wiry white hair. He always wore jeans, a plaid shirt, and suspenders, even for very important functions like this. Desdemona found this attire highly inappropriate. “I must admit . . . my heart’s heavy as a sack of cement this morning. I feel that we should take a moment, before this place is auctioned, to remember how special it used to be.”

  Desdemona snorted. “No need to be sentimental. Joffkins! What time is it?”

  Her brother, Joffkins, startled. He checked his shiny watch, which had been outfitted with a compass, a weight scale, and all sorts of other equipment he’d need for an adventure hike. (Not that he’d ever actually been hiking.)

  “Ten till,” he said as he smoothed his graying hair behind his ears. He reached out to pat his older sister’s shoulder, but she shrugged away. “Why so tense, Desdemona?”

  “No reason,” she mumbled, glancing down the street. Surely the Problims didn’t have any last tricks up their dirty sleeves . . .

  “Now, I know some of you are in a big ol’ hurry,” the mayor said, raising a fuzzy white eyebrow in Desdemona’s direction. “I’m all for innovation. But I’ll be honest—it pains my soul when people decide to smash down every reminder we have of the past. This place especially. I remember the parties they used to have in this yard, barefoot dances under paper-star lanterns . . .”

  “So uncivilized,” Desdemona mumbled.

  “Those were good days,” the mayor continued. “Before this old house is gone, I’d like to give it a proper good-bye. This home was something special. Losing it feels a little bit like saying farewell to an old friend. So let’s take a minute, now. And remember something we loved.”

  Everyone hushed their whispering and stilled their moving. Soft sounds of summer filled the air: Crickets singing. Bull frogs yerrrp-ing. A low hum of wattabat wings from the general direction of the Swampy Woods. Somewhere far off, a motor revved. A cell phone jingled in someone’s pocket. And as always, there was that faithful shh of the nearby sea.

  “Why won’t he get on with it?” Desdemona asked.

  Joffkins leaned over and whispered, “Only eight more minutes.”

  Desdemona glared at the mayor, who stood with his head bowed, hat over his heart. She’d never had any difficulty intimidating most people—with her words, her stare, her money, her height. Something always worked. And the mayor was such a scrawny, soft-spoken man. That’s why she’d voted for him; because he’d surely do anything she wanted. But he rarely seemed intimidated by her in the least. Which was frustrating.

  The mayor looked over the crowd. “Anybody have any words they’d like to say? In memory of this house?”

  As if a house were a person. As if a house could tell a story. Well . . . that house did have a story. A terrible one. The sooner it was erased from the town’s map, the better they all would be.

  No one spoke.

  But everyone began to . . . sniff.

  “Whoa,” Mary Wong fanned the air in front of her nose dramatically. “What is that smell? Desdemo
na, is that your new perfume?”

  Desdemona raised her eyebrows. “Excuse me?”

  “Wait, no. That’s not perfume,” Mrs. Wong said, her nose wrinkling in disgust. She jostled the shoulder of her son, Noah. “Did you toot?” she asked through clenched teeth.

  “No!” he said. And then he too took a deep breath. And laughed. “Gross!”

  Bertha Martin stood with her hands on her hips, the sleeves of her Good Donuts T-shirt rolled back to show her flag tattoo. She sniffed. Nodded. “Oh shoot, yeah. That’s a fierce fart, is what that is.” She glanced over at her sister, Dorothy. Gave her a thumbs-up.

  “It wasn’t me!” Dorothy chimed in. “I’d claim it. I’ve got no scruples.”

  Suddenly the mayor’s speech was drowned out by a rising chorus of whispers. And then gasps.

  There is a sound unique to small towns like Lost Cove, more common than the rise and fall of the cricket song or a wild cicada concert in the heat of a summer night. Rumors have a rhythm, you see: like a hiss and a rattle and a chorus of snakes.

  Someone was coming.

  Some “ones,” more like.

  Desdemona glared at the edge of the street. “They’re here.” She seethed. And then she grinned. “Good.”

  Return of the Seven

  Thea and Wendell concentrated on steering their bicycle built for two down Main Street without wrecking. The front wheel was bent, so the bike swiveled as it rickity-thumped over the cobblestone road. Mostly because Frida insisted on sitting in the front basket, playing her ukulele.

  “Do you see all the people around that house?” Thea asked. “What if there was an accident? What if somebody is hurt?”

  “Dear God in heaven,” Thea heard an elderly lady say. “It’s them.”

  “No one is hurt!” Sundae beamed. “It’s a welcome party!”

  Sundae led the Problim parade, pulling a large wagon full of precious junk that the Problims had managed to salvage from their home: books, blankets, a few stuffed animals, a brass lamp that looked like a rabbit, a top hat, and a box of cereal. She waved happily at the crowd. Though sweaty and covered in dust, her smile was still as bright as a July sunrise.

  Ichabod marched beside Sundae’s wagon, snout tipped up. Atop the pig sat Toot Problim, his chin high and proud. He snuggled a dirty teddy bear close to his heart. The second wave of Toot’s #589 wafted toward the crowd and caused some of the women to totter in their high heels.

  “Hello, hello! Good morning!” Sundae called out, her blond ponytail swishing behind her. “We’re your new neighbors!”

  Toot carried the deed in his chubby fist. He hoisted it up proudly, like a tiny king, for all to see.

  Thea noticed something odd: as the Problims moved closer, the adults began to back away . . . but just far enough that they could still get a look at them. Thea knew her family looked dirty. They were still covered in chalky debris, after all. But that didn’t seem so bad, considering they’d survived an explosion.

  “That boy . . . ,” said a woman with dark hair and a chunky blue necklace. She pulled her son back hard against her chest. “That child has blades on his arms!”

  “Gardening tools,” Sal mumbled.

  A little girl’s eyes widened as she saw Ichabod. “Ew. That is a pig. There are no pigs allowed on Main Street . . . are there, Mommy?”

  Frida sang:

  “We have a fox,

  We have a swine,

  Oh friends, this is our time to shine!”

  She jumped out of the basket, did a quick stretch, and then ran full force at the crowd.

  “Go, Frida, go!” Sundae squealed.

  “What’s a Frida?” someone mumbled.

  The fox pumped her arms. She yelled:

  “I shall not blink, I shall not slip!

  Make way, make way! The fox must flip!”

  Frida cartwheeled into the crowd, accidentally crashing into Will O’Pinion. Who crashed into Carley-Rue, who fell into Mrs. Wong. And then the crowd became human dominoes falling to the ground. Frida jumped up and raised her arms in victory. Toot (born on a Tuesday, and always full of grace) scrambled down from the pig. He waddled around trying to help people stand, which is difficult when your arms are tiny.

  Last in line, Mona swiveled her pink scooter to a stop. She opened her black umbrella to shield her precious plant.

  Carley-Rue’s crown sat sideways on her head as she stood and eyed them carefully. “Mommy . . . are those the . . .”

  “Shush!” Desdemona pressed her hand over Carley-Rue’s mouth. “Who cares? Onward, Mayor!” And then more quietly, she added, “This place is mine.”

  “This place is ours, actually,” Sundae announced brightly. She made her way through the crowd and presented the mayor with the deed. “Hello, my fellow Covians. Thank you so much for gathering to greet us! I’m not sure how the word got out, but I’m so tickled to meet you.”

  The mayor smiled and raised a fuzzy eyebrow. “And you are?”

  “Sundae,” she said brightly. And then she pulled her shoulders back and proudly declared, “Sundae Problim.”

  The crowd gasped and fell completely silent.

  Problim.

  Desdemona clenched her fists.

  “No way,” Noah gasped. “We thought you were legends! We dress up like you guys for Halloween!”

  Bertha rubbed her hands together. “Now this is getting interesting . . .”

  “The Problims . . . ,” someone whispered. “That family had magic. Bad magic . . .”

  A sputtery whooosh sound filled the air. The crowd looked to Toot.

  “That’s #12410,” Sundae clarified for everyone. “Happens when he’s excited. And we are all thrilled to be your neighbors. We would love to get settled in to our house and—”

  “YOUR house?” Desdemona shouted. The Problim children all spun to look at her.

  “Mom.” Will pulled his phone off his eyes. “Chill.”

  “I don’t chill!”

  “Let’s all keep calm now,” the mayor declared. He pulled his glasses from his front pocket and read the deed Sundae handed over. As he read, the crowd pushed in closer.

  “This does appear to be legitimate.” The mayor nodded and turned his attention to the people of Lost Cove. “This is the deed for the house of Frank Problim, leaving this home to his children and their children . . .”

  Desdemona clutched her brother’s arm, digging her nails deep into his skin until he pulled away with an “Ouch!”

  She stepped closer, so Sundae could see her own reflection in the woman’s sunglasses. They reminded Sundae of bug eyes. Of a large spider. Not spiders like the ones Wendell and Thea raised that liked to cuddle and do circus tricks. More like the spiders that built fine, invisible webs on the porch of the bungalow to trap summer fireflies.

  “But how do we know you are Problims, with an i, and not just PROBLEMS?” Desdemona asked, her fingers still curved like claws. “Where are your parents? You can’t deed a house to a child, Mayor. She can’t be more than ten!”

  Sundae answered thoughtfully, “Actually, I’m a space-efficient sixteen! My parents are archeologists on a secret mission for the Queen of Andorra. So I take care of my siblings. We take care of one another, actually.”

  “At least there are only six of them,” someone said softly. “Six are easy to deal with. It’s when it’s seven that bad things happen.”

  Desdemona and Joffkins both shivered at some distant memory.

  “Actually, there are seven of us,” Sundae added sheepishly.

  “They’re lying anyway,” Desdemona said. “Do you know what happens to children who lie?”

  Toot shook his head.

  “Oh, babies. Foolish babies. Terrible things happen to children who don’t tell the truth. They’re separated. They’re taken far, far away from one another. Let’s see . . . seven children. Seven continents. Seven beautiful cars to take you all away from one another. That’d fit, wouldn’t it?” The hint of a grin twitched at the corners o
f Desdemona’s mouth.

  Thea looked around at the terrified faces of the townspeople. “But we aren’t lying.”

  “But you are,” Desdemona said. “Because the real Problims moved far away from this town many years ago. Don’t worry, Mayor. I was prepared for this.”

  Desdemona snapped and waved to the black SUVs. Men and women in wrinkly black suits jumped out, eyes locked on the Problims.

  Desdemona grinned. “I heard there were terrible miscreants living out in the Swampy Woods; stealing other peoples’ identities, wreaking havoc on every acre of nature they touch. To keep my children safe, I formed the Society for the Protection of Unwanted Children—”

  Sal raised an eyebrow. “That’s seriously what it’s called?”

  “Yes!” Desdemona continued, “They are trained and ready to make sure none of our children are in danger. Separate them.”

  Thea felt paralyzed by her fear. Wendell grabbed her and yanked her into the tight circle of dirty siblings, all behind Sundae. As if Sundae—tiny, obnoxiously happy Sundae—could protect them from this terrible twist of events. “Whoa there, friends!” Sundae said, smiling at the people in dark suits. “Back off. I’m serious! This is all perfectly legal!”

  “That’s true,” said the mayor as he scanned the deed. “If you are the Problim children, you can live here. And I believe you are, but we need documentation, see.”

  “Of course!” Sundae nodded. “I’ll find our birth certificates . . . or something. And I’ll try to call our parents once we’re settled in.” (The paperwork was buried somewhere in the bungalow rubble, so Sundae hoped they didn’t ask to see it. But it did technically exist.) “They’ll be back soon anyway.”

  “When exactly?” Desdemona demanded.

  “Within a month,” Sundae said. “Or two. They’ll be here lickety-split!” Sundae returned her attention to the mayor. He seemed far more reasonable than the lady with the big sunglasses. “I understand we’ll have to prove our identity somehow. But due to unforeseen circumstances, we need to move in right away.”

  “Of course,” the mayor assured her. He even offered her a kind half smile.