ago, which pleased the shareholders for about a week until the stock began tanking once more. At that point there was talk among the members of the Board to remove Booker as chairperson. It was decided behind closed doors to allow him to complete his eight year tenure, which—per the bylaws—was the longest a person could serve as chair.
The following morning—crack of dawn—the household was awoken by the blaring sound of smoke detectors going off on the first floor. Booker was the first to make it down the two flights of stairs. He snatched a fire extinguisher off the wall in the laundry room and rushed down the long hallway to the parlor. He suspected that one of the girls or servants had closed the fireplace flue before the last of the embers had extinguished and that was why smoke had filled the parlor.
On reaching the entranceway his first response was that he was right. Along the timber-lined ceiling of the parlor were roiling clouds of smoke. He glanced at the fireplace and saw that it had not been used in days. The brownie’s chair next to its dark, gaping mouth sat empty.
Booker dashed toward the windows that lined the opposite wall in an effort to get them open and reduce the wallowing smoke. Two steps and he was airborne. The brief journey was disorienting. His torso gyrated. The extinguisher knocked against his anklebone midair. He landed hard on his shoulder and rolled up against a table leg that got introduced to his spine in a less than desirable manner.
When his eyes blinked into focus he saw Airybus on all fours swatting at the area rug with a sofa pillow. A semicircular ring of smoldering carpet fanned out from the brownie. On the charred rug that remained between them, Booker noticed a cigarette that had been smoked halfway lying next to the handheld fire extinguisher. At that moment Booker realized two things: he had tripped over Airybus on his way to the windows and it was the creature’s dropped cigarette that had caused the fire.
Booker reached out for the extinguisher, ripped out the safety pin and squeezed the handle. A spray of white chemicals fanned onto the area rug and across the cheap suit of the brownie who ejaculated, “Easy on the threads!”
Short of breath, Booker struggled to his feet and pushed up three of the windows. Airybus helped Booker drag the area rug out one of the back doors and into the yard as Chelsea and the girls watched from a distance. With ceiling fans whirling and windows full open, it would take them over an hour to clear the parlor of smoke.
By this time the firemen had come and gone, but not before giving the Tarwicks a stern warning about smoking in general and especially indoors. The police had also arrived, given the high profile of the Tarwicks in the county. When looking at the charred rug on the lawn, one of the officers noticed the brownie climbing in one of the windows Booker had opened in the back of the house. When the officer asked the brownie who he was and whether he had rights to be in the Alabaster Mansion, Airybus tore into a rage. His funny round ears morphed into a claret shade and the mole on the side of his nose began to glow. Standing in his cheap suit smeared with evaporating chemicals, Airybus called the officer all kinds of monikers (“stupid” being one of the nicer terms) just because the officer was doing his job and looking out for the owners’ safety.
Once the girls were nestled back in their beds, Chelsea and Booker confronted their brownie in the foyer.
“Tonight you have embarrassed us to no end,” Booker said.
“I dig. The fuzz had it out for me . . . just because of my unique color. I don’t answer to The Man.” His fingers traced a box in the air as he said, “Major Squaresville.”
“We gave you strict instructions not to smoke in the house,” they said together.
“Don’t wig out on me. A cat’s gotta cool it . . . with his cigs.”
“How’s this for cool?” said Booker. “We are leaving tomorrow on a family vacation and—”
“Gas! I’d love to cut out for a few days,” Airybus interjected.
“You are not going. Period. In fact, we do not want you to step foot in this house while we are gone. Got it?”
At this the brownie made tons of promises (even more outlandish than the ones that got him into the mansion) to make up for the trouble he had caused and to put the Alabaster Mansion and Tarwick Timber Corporation in good financial shape. To the surprise of Booker and Chelsea, the brownie said he had just finished a book that was about to be published. The ugly secretaries had apparently helped in this endeavor. He went on about a book tour and that he would use the profits for the cause of the Tarwicks. This surprised the couple to no end as the brownie didn’t strike them as intelligent enough to pen a tome. This promise, like the myriad of others, held little weight.
Booker wrenched the handle on one of the front doors and pointed to the sidewalk. “Out! I don’t care about your book or free money. I want you out of this house right this instant!”
“Uh, look . . . that’s a real drag, Daddy’O,” was the only response as Airybus slunk outside, but not before giving Chelsea a wink as he grooved by her.
VI. Away
A day later the Tarwicks hopped in one of the sport utilities parked in the garage and made their way across leaf-blown freeways and back roads for two hours until they reached their vacation home. They all relished an extended weekend of fishing, watching movies and playing board games in the Northeast. Chelsea was glad to have Booker back and so were the girls.
On the way they realized they had caught the beginning of the fall color change. Booker admitted that he had forgotten how beautiful it was as he peered out the window. Claire said it reminded her of their brownie and his many different colors. She agreed with Jan that they missed him already. He was their little pet.
This disappointed Booker. He was thinking of ways to get rid of the brownie once and for all.
“Hey Claire, just curious, does your Scottish book of strange creatures talk about how to get rid of a brownie once he comes to live in your house?”
“Oh Daddy, you can never kick a brownie out for good. Once he comes to live in a house he is there to stay.”
The Tarwicks finally reached their vacation home. Booker punched in the passcode at the gate and the iron gull wings with giant Ts welded in the center, parted in the middle. Once the family had unloaded, Booker checked the electrical and plumbing systems to ensure all was in working order. The worst damage was a few tree limbs that had fallen across the deck skirting the rear of the home.
The first time Booker’s cellphone vibrated to life on the marble kitchen countertop, Chelsea snatched it away, powered it down, and hid it in the breadbox. Booker failed to miss the device for another hour and by that time he was laden in plastic jewelry from the Princess Promenade game the girls had him playing. He gave up on calling the office.
They ordered pizza for dinner and then settled into the reclining leather seats of the theatre room to watch TV, huge bowls of popcorn on their hips. And it wasn’t just any TV show, of course, but a princess marathon that happened to be on the entire day.
At ten the girls fell asleep in the chairs despite their best efforts to stay up until midnight. Booker and Chelsea each took one in their arms and tucked them into bed without so much as having them change out of their clothes.
Back in the theatre room the parents flicked on a late night talk show. When the commercial was over, they were crestfallen at the image they saw strutting across the hi-def screen. Chelsea spilt the popcorn across the blanket covering her legs. Booker sloshed bottled water over his hand.
There was their little brownie in his cheap suit waltzing over to meet the talk show host. They shook hands and Airybus took a seat to rousing applause from the audience. There was a celebrity persona about him much to the Tarwicks’ dismay.
“How’d he do that? How’d he get on a TV show? How did he get there?” Chelsea blurted.
“Shhh. Listen. I think he’s peddling that book he was talking about. How does he think he can write books?”
Sure enough, on the host’s desk was a thin hardback. From its description the book sounded poorly written and
boorish. But the crowd lauded it as did the host whom Airybus thanked for the “fall by.” The way the brownie paused every four or five words, it seemed like he was reading off a teleprompter. When it obviously malfunctioned, the brownie looked stupid and was unable to annunciate his canned speech.
The audience burst out laughing at the gaff. In effort to recover, Airybus deviated from his script and cracked a few bawdy jokes. He stooped so low as to make fun of retarded people. Next he asserted he was the rightful owner of the Alabaster Mansion and berated the Tarwicks for having ruined the storied home, which he told the world was in extreme debt.
Booker slammed the remote control into the wall. It shattered into pieces. “That little stooge! He says he owns our house? He’s yucking it up like he doesn't have a care in the world? He tells the world we’re in debt?”
Chelsea, head in hands, was sobbing.
After a sleepless night, Booker and Chelsea got the girls out of bed early. Their protests that they wanted to stay longer fell on deaf ears as Chelsea riffled clothes into their tiny suitcases.
They ate breakfast from a drive-thru on their way back to the Alabaster Mansion. Chelsea drove while Booker frantically checked voicemail and email on his phone. His in-box was full. The CEO could not believe what he was hearing:
COO [Friday, 10:42 A.M.] –