By Tiber
I guess it was inevitable. My father has just informed me that he knows I lost my job and that I’m back living here at home, hiding out in my old third-floor bedroom full-time and not just “dropping by” for meals.
In a way, I’m sort of relieved. It’s so cold outside, I’ve been getting frostbite having to sneak out the back and then circle all the way around the house so I can ”arrive” at the front door for dinner. My parents’ house is so big that, in this weather, half-way into your trip around it, you run into St. Bernards mixing up Mojitos, so you shoot the breeze until the real breeze turns gale-force and your lips ice over. Okay, I made that part up. But it’s still freezing outside.
Anyway, I asked Dad how he’d figured out that I was back. He said, first of all, that he had deduced my full-time presence when, one night, on the back stairs, he heard a footfall that didn’t belong to any of the 20 or so family and staff people already living here.
Then later, he thought he detected added heft when one of the maids threw some laundry down the chute, as if there were more dirty towels than usual.
And on top of that, he recognized a certain kind of dust on my jacket that only comes from the third-floor, where my bedroom is. He claims it’s from Aunt April operating power tools. I’m afraid it may just be from Aunt April.
I was busted anyway. But I had to admit I was truly impressed with Dad’s remarkable detective skills.
Then, he went on to say he also knew I’d lost my job and was living back at home because fourteen people had told him.
So much for living with Sherlock Holmes. It’s more like living in the home for retired mob informants.
