The Wizard's Dilemma, New Millennium Edition (5 page)

Inside was a big comfortable combined kitchen and dining room, where his mama and pop usually could be found this time of night. The only thing that happened in the living room at Kit’s house was TV watching and the entertainment of family friends and guests—when that didn’t drift into the kitchen as well. There was a big couch off to one side, under the front windows, with a couple of little tables on either side, one of which had a small flatscreen TV that was blaring the local news; in the middle of the room was the big oval dining table, and on the other side of the room were the cooking island and, beyond it, the fridge and sink and oven and cupboards. On the cooking island was a pot, boiling, but as Kit went by he peered into it and saw nothing but water. He chucked his book bag over the back of one of the dining-room chairs and sidestepped neatly as Ponch, running in the slowly closing screen door after him, hit the tiled floor and skidded halfway across it, almost to the door that led to the living room. “Hey, Mama,” Kit called, “what’s for dinner?”

“Spaghetti,” his mother called from somewhere at the back of the house. “It would have been meatballs as well, but we didn’t know which planet you were on.”

Kit let out a small breath of relief, for spaghetti was not one of the things his mother could ruin, at least not without being badly distracted. She was one of those people who do a few dishes really well—her
arroz con pollo
was one of the great accomplishments of civilization on Earth, as far as Kit was concerned—but beyond those limits, his mama often got in trouble, and there were times when Kit was incredibly relieved to find his pop cooking.
Especially since it means I don’t have to interfere
… He smiled ruefully. The last time he tried using wizardry to thicken one of his mama’s failed gravy recipes had been memorable. These days he stuck to flour.

Kit’s father came up the stairs from the basement into the kitchen—a big brawny broad-shouldered man, dark eyed, and dark haired except around the sideburns, where he claimed his work as a pressman at a Nassau County printing plant was starting to turn him gray. “He’s gonna take that screen door off its hinges some day, son,” Kit’s father said, watching Ponch recover himself and start bouncing around the kitchen.

“Might not be a bad idea,” said Kit’s mother from the next room. “It’s as old as the house. It looks awful.”

“It’s not broken yet,” Kit’s father said. “Though every time that dog hits it, you get your hopes up, huh?”

Kit’s mother came into the kitchen and didn’t say anything, just smiled. She was taller than Kit’s dad, getting a little plump these days, but not so much that she worried about it. Her dark hair was pulled back tight and bunned up at the back, and Kit was slightly surprised to see that she was still in one of her nurse’s uniforms—pink top and white pants.
Though maybe it’s not “still,
” he thought as she paused to give Kit a one-armed hug and sat down at the end of the table. She had her phone in the other hand and was texting somebody.

“You have to work night shift tonight, Mama?”

She finished the text and dropped the phone on the table, then bent over to slip one of her shoes onto one white-stockinged foot and laced the shoe up. “Just evening shift,” she said. “They called from work to ask if I could swap a shift with one of the other nurses in the med-surg wing; he had some emergency at home. I’ll be home around two. Popi’ll feed you.”

“Okay. Did anybody feed Ponch?”

“I did,” said Kit’s mother.

“Thanks, Mama,” Kit said, and bent over to kiss her on the cheek. Then he looked down at Ponch, who was now sitting and gazing up at Kit with big soulful eyes and what was supposed to pass for a wounded look.
You didn’t believe me!

Kit gave him a look. “You,” he said. “You fibber. You need a walk?”

“YEAHYEAHYEAHYEAHYEAHYEAH!”

His mother covered her ears. “He’s deafening,” she said. “Tell him to go out!”

Kit laughed.”
You
tell him! He’s not deaf.”

“I’m glad for him, because
I
will be shortly! Pancho! Go
out!
”

Delighted, Ponch turned himself in three or four hurried circles and launched himself at the screen door again.
Thump, wham-wham-wham-wham-wham, CRASH!

“I see,” Kit’s father said as he paused by the spaghetti pot, “that he’s figured out how to push the latch with his paw.”

“I noticed that, too,” Kit said. “He’s getting smart.” And then he made an amused face, though not for his father to see.
Smart
didn’t begin to cover the territory.

“So how did your magic thing go tonight?” his dad said.

Kit sat down with only about half a groan. “It’s not magic, Pop. Magic is when you wave your hand and stuff happens without any good reason or any price. Wizardry’s the exact opposite, believe me.”

His father looked resigned. “So my terminology’s messed up. It takes a while to learn a new professional vocabulary. The thing with the fish, then, it went okay?”

Kit started to laugh. “You call S’reee a fish to her face, Pop, you’re likely to remember it for a while,” he said. “It wasn’t the fish; it was the water. It was dirty.”

“Not exactly news.”

“It’s gonna start getting cleaner.
That’ll
be news.” Kit allowed himself a satisfied grin. “And you heard it here first.”

“I imagine Nita must be pleased,” his mother said.

“I imagine,” Kit said, and got up to go to the fridge.

He could feel his mother looking at him, even without turning to see. He could hear her looking at his pop, even without so much as a glance in her direction. Kit grimaced, and hoped they couldn’t somehow sense the expression without actually seeing it themselves. The problem was that they were parents, possessed of strange unearthly powers that even wizards sometimes couldn’t understand.

“I thought maybe she was going to come over for dinner,” said his pop. “She usually does, after you’ve been out doing this kind of work.”

“Uh, not tonight. She had some other stuff she had to take care of,” Kit said.
Like biting the heads off her unsuspecting victims!

The sudden image of Nita as a giant praying mantis made Kit snicker. But then he dismissed it, not even feeling particularly guilty. “Where’s Carmela?”

“Tonight’s a media pig-out night for her,” Kit’s pop said. “A reward for that math test. She’s upstairs with the spare DVD player pigging out on those Japanese cartoons.”

Kit smiled. It was unusual for things to be so quiet while his sister was conscious, and the thought of sitting down and letting the weariness from the evening’s wizardry catch up with him in conditions of relative peace and quiet was appealing. But Ponch needed walking first. “Okay,” Kit said. “I’m gonna take Ponch out now.”

“Dinner in about twenty,” his dad said.

“We’ll be back,” Kit said. As he went out the back door, he took Ponch’s leash down off the hook where the jackets hung behind the door. Out in the driveway he paused and looked for Ponch. He was nowhere to be seen.

“Huh,” Kit said under his breath, and yawned. The post-wizardry reaction was starting to set in now. If he didn’t get going, he was going to fall asleep in the spaghetti. Kit went down to the end of the driveway, looked both ways up and down the street. After a moment he saw a black shape snuffling with intense interest around the bottom of a tree about halfway down Conlon.

Kit paused, looking down where Conlon Avenue met East Clinton, wondering whether he might see a shadow a little taller than him standing at the corner, looking his way. But there was no sign of her. He made a wry face at his own unhappiness.
Just a fight.
Nonetheless, he and Nita had had so few that he wasn’t really sure about what to do in the aftermath of one. In fact, Kit couldn’t remember a fight they’d had that hadn’t been over, and made up for, in a matter of minutes. This was hours, now, and it was getting uncomfortable.
What if I really hurt her somehow? She’s been kinda weird since she got back from Ireland. What if she’s so pissed at me that she—

He stopped himself.
No point in standing here making it worse. Either go right over there now and talk to her or wait until tomorrow and do it then, but don’t waste energy obsessing over it.

Kit sighed and turned the other way, toward the end of the road that led to the junior-senior high school. He saw Ponch sniffing and wagging his tail near the big tree in front of the Wilkinsons’ house. Ponch cocked a leg at the tree and, after a few seconds’ meditation, bounded off down the street. Kit went after him, swinging the leash in the dusk.

From farther down the street came a sound of furious yapping. It was the Akambes’ dog, whose real name was Grarrhah but whose human family had unfortunately decided to call her Tinkerbell. She was one of those tiny, delicate, silky-furred terriers who looked like she might unravel if you could figure out which thread to pull, but her personality seemed to have been transplanted from a dog three or four times her size. She was never allowed out of the backyard, and whenever one of the other neighborhood dogs went by, she would claw at the locked gate and yell at them in Cyene, “You lookin’ at me? I can take you! Come over here and say that! Stop me before I tear ‘im apart!” and other such futile provocations.

Kit sighed as Ponch went past, and as he followed, the noise scaled up and up. There was no point in going over and talking to Grarrhah. She took her watchdog role terribly seriously, and would work herself into such a lather that she’d already be prostrate and foaming at the mouth from overexcitement and frustration by the time you got to the gate. Making a poor creature like this more crazy than she was already was no part of a wizard’s business, so Kit just walked by as Grarrhah shrieked at him from behind the gate, “Thief! Thief! Burglars! Joyriders, ram raiders, walk-by shooters; lemme at ‘em, I’ll rip ‘em to shreds!”

Kit walked on, wondering if there was something he could do for her. Then he grinned sourly.
What a laugh! I don’t even know what to do about Neets.

All at once he changed his mind about letting things wait until the next day. Kit reached into his pocket and pulled out the manual. Among its many bundled messaging functions, it had a provision for text and recorded media messaging for times when wizards were having trouble getting in touch with each other directly. Kit flipped to the back pages where such messages were composed and stored. “New message,” he said. “For Nita—”

The page glowed softly in the dusk and displayed the long string of characters in the Speech that was Nita’s name, along with the equivalent ID/locator string for her manual.

There the book sat, ready to take his message… and Kit couldn’t think what to say.
I’m sorry?
For
what?
I just told her what I thought. I wasn’t nasty about it. And I was right, too.

He was strongly tempted to tell her so, but then Kit came up against a bizarre notion that doing so under the present circumstances would be somehow unfair. He spent another couple of minutes trying to find something useful to say. But Kit wasn’t sure what was bothering Nita, and he was still annoyed enough at the way she’d behaved to feel like it wasn’t his job to be the understanding one.

Kit frowned, opened his mouth and then closed it again, discarding that potential message as well. Finally all he could find to say was, “If you need some time by yourself, feel free.”

He looked at the page as the words transcribed themselves in the Speech. Then the transcription stopped and the blank space further down the page displayed one word:

More?

“No more,” Kit said. “Send it.”

Sent
.

He stood there a moment, half hoping he’d get an answer right back. But there was no response, no hint of the subtle fizz or itch of the manual’s covers that indicated an answer.
Maybe she’s out. Maybe she’s busy with something else.

Or maybe she just doesn’t want to answer…

He closed the manual, shoved it back into his pocket and started walking again. When Kit reached the streetlight where Jackson Street met Conlon, he looked around. “Ponch?” he said, then listened for the jingle of Ponch’s chain collar and tags.

Nothing.

Now where’d he go?
Sweat started to break out all over Kit at the thought that Ponch might have gotten into someone’s backyard and caught something he shouldn’t have. Ponch’s uncertain grasp of the difference between squirrels—which he hunted constantly with varying success—and rabbits—which he chased and almost always caught—had thrown him into disgrace a couple of months back when one of the neighbor’s tame rabbits had escaped from its hutch and strayed into Kit’s backyard. Ponch’s enthusiastic response to this exciting development had cost Kit about a month’s allowance to buy the neighbor a new rabbit of the same rare lop-eared breed… a situation made more annoying by the fact that wizards are enjoined against making money out of nothing except in extreme emergencies connected with errantry, which this was not. Kit had yelled at Ponch only once about the mistake; Ponch had been completely sorry. But all the same, every time Ponch’s whereabouts couldn’t be accounted for, Kit began to twitch.

Kit started to jog down the street toward the entrance to the school, where Ponch liked to chase rabbits in the big fields to either side. But then he stopped as he heard a familiar sound, claws on concrete, and the familiar jingle, as Ponch came tearing down the sidewalk at him. Kit had just enough warning to sidestep slightly, so that Ponch’s excited jump took him through air, instead of through Kit. Ponch came down about five feet behind where Kit had been standing, spun around, and started jumping up and down in front of him again, panting with excitement, “Come see it! Come see, look, I found it, c’mon c’mon c’mon c’mon,
comeseecomeseecomesee!”

“Come see
what
?” Kit said in the Speech.

“I found something!”

Kit grinned. Normally, with Ponch, this meant something dead. His father was still getting laughs out of the story about Ponch and the very mummified squirrel he had hidden for months under the old beat-up blanket in his doghouse. “So what is it?”