Tate showed the eggs, pointed at himself, then made tear marks down his cheeks.
Again, Emmie shook her head at him. He had been very bad.
On a countertop along a sidewall was a low row of something covered by white cloths. When Tate pulled one of the cloths back, he saw a pie with a crust made of long pieces of perfectly browned dough. The top looked like a flower. Underneath, berries oozed atop a golden custard.
Tate didn’t have to fake his longing and hunger. He snatched away the other covers. There were six pies, each with a different top. They were works of art! One had meringue on it high enough to make a pillow. There was a tart with six fruits arranged in a pattern, another had peach slices baked in cream, one was topped with lots of little cut-out leaves, all perfectly browned, and on the end was a rolled-up crust filled with apricots and sliced almonds. The divine smell of the pies made him dizzy.
Tate’s hunger and the beautiful pies were more than he could resist. There was a big spoon nearby and he grabbed it—but Emmie started waving her arms no. He could not steal the lady’s food.
It wasn’t difficult for Tate to silently show his hunger and his pure, deep lust for them.
But Emmie didn’t give in. Her pantomime reminded him of what he’d done to the screen door. He did not deserve any of what the lady had cooked.
Tate sniffed hard and wiped away fake tears, but at last he put his shoulders back. He was going to be brave and strong and resist the food.
When there was a screech from upstairs, Tate’s eyes widened. He looked terrified and as though he was going to run away.
But Emmie vigorously shook her head to let him know that it was just a bird. She silently encouraged him to proceed.
Holding his phone, he slowly went up the stairs, stopping three times to mimic fear. Each time, Emmie had to be firm to make him continue.
The stairs led to a landing outside the bedroom. Scattered around on the floor were objects that looked to have been on top of the dresser. By the window was a huge iridescent peacock, its long tail elegantly dragging behind it.
Tate plastered himself against the open door, his arms outstretched in terror. The music was building in pace. Turning, he threw himself back over the doorway, too frightened to stay in the room.
It was Emmie’s gestures, especially when she slapped her fist into her palm, that made him stay. She told him to go back in the room and close the door. This caused more fear from Tate; he was shivering all over.
r /> The bird, now trapped in the room, leaped onto a chair by the window and tried to tear its way out through the screen.
Tate stood where he was and shrugged in puzzlement. Now what should he do? he silently asked of his niece.
Emmie made motions that he was to take off his shirt.
Tate showed shock and modestly crossed his arms over his chest.
Giggling, Emmie shook her head. He should take off his shirt and throw it over the bird.
There was more feigned fear from Tate, but he took off his big shirt, leaving a T-shirt on underneath. Like a matador in the bullring, he held his plaid shirt out, challenging the bird to charge forward. He had his shoulders back, his head cocked at a bullfighter’s angle, and his swagger was a perfect imitation.
Emmie was laughing and shaking her head no, no, no. Throw the shirt over the bird.
With reluctance, Tate quit the matador strut and fearfully held out his shirt toward the bird. After some elaborately missed attempts, he dropped the cloth over the bird’s head, threw his arm around it, then looked at Emmie. Now what? he seemed to ask.
She pointed at the window in her own bedroom. He should let the bird out.
Tate nodded as though that was the wisest thing he’d ever heard. With one hand, he slid up a screenless window, lifted the bird, and tried to pull his shirt off its head. But to Tate’s shock, the terrified creature leaped back inside. As Tate attempted to wrestle it into going in the right direction, its long tail slapped him in the face. His very genuine coughing fit made Emmie fall over in laughter.
When the chaos finally settled, Tate was sitting on the floor, the bird was on the roof of the front porch, and Tate’s shirt was hanging by a button from the gutter.
Emmie howled in laughter.
Tate tried to get up, pretended to stumble, but when he reached the level of the window, there was the bird, its beak about three inches from his nose. The creature gave its loud, hideous scream right into Tate’s face.
Genuinely startled, Tate fell backward onto the floor, and the bird ran to the edge of the roof and fluttered down.
A bit dazed, Tate got off the floor, closed the window, and dramatically wiped the sweat off his brow. A survey of the room showed that it was a mess. Emmie motioned for him to clean it up.
Tate gave an exaggerated, silent groan. He lifted his hands in a way to indicate that he was a man. He did not clean rooms.