Page 61 of We Fell Apart
“No,” he says. “I didn’t.”
“I don’t think Brock has anywhere near the skill, and Tatum doesn’t have time, with his job and all the swimming. June never heard about the piranha plant, so it has to be you.”
He closes the book. “I don’t know what to say, Matilda. It’s not me. What’s your logic? I don’t even understand what you’re saying.”
It starts to sound outrageous as I say it out loud: “Kingsley taught you to draw and paint like him. You’re homeschooled because he was teaching you. He wanted you to do it so that he could—so that he could leave, I guess. So that he could escape this life and you could keep painting, as him, for as long as he’d reasonably live.”
Meer shakes his head.
“Or he’s dead,” I say. “That occurred to me, too. Like he could have trained you because he knew he was dying. And he’s been gone a long time now and all this is a cover-up so you can sell paintings for eight million dollars.”
“Oh god, he’s not dead,” says Meer. “He’s been emailing you. He’s just— Look. I know it’s really hard for you that you haven’t met him. And it has been a strange time, with the waiting, and my mom being upstairs all day. But he’s done lots of paintings with scary plants. Like this one he did of a poison garden. And another, like a Sleeping Beauty thing, a castle covered in briars.” He taps the sketchbook. “I don’t think this is your piranha plant at all. I think this is just Kingsley imagining plant monsters, which is a thing he does.”
I look at Meer’s kind face.
I love him. I am not sure I believe him, but I love him.
“Okay,” I say.
There’s a thump in the hall then as Tatum bounds up the stairs. “Meer!” he barks, sticking his head in the open doorway. “Tell me you didn’t order a box of live animals.”
41
Meer and Ifollow Tatum to the kitchen. Brock isn’t down yet. Glum is closed in the pantry, barking and barking. On the counter is a large package with holes in the lid.
“It’s my poultry!” shouts Meer when he sees it. He hugs me happily. “I did it! What you said? I’m raising chickens. And whatever. I supercharged it. You’ll see.”
“Damn it, Meer,” says Tatum, scowling at the box. “You decided you like chickens literally last week.”
“I’ve liked them for a long time!” says Meer. Then he peeks into the pantry at the barking dog. “We should put Glum outside.”
“We’re out of dog food,” says Tatum. “I couldn’t get her to goout.”
“She can have bacon,” says Meer. “There’s leftover.” He rummages in the fridge for the bacon, then lures Glum outside with it and shuts the front door.
Back in the kitchen, Meer lights up again. “I ordered them super rush,” he says. “With Brock’s credit card. Brock said it was okay.” He lowers his voice. “Don’t tell my mom I got them delivered to the house. Kingsley likes everything sent to the post office. But it turns out you can’t get poultry delivered to a PO box. It’s like, illegal or something.”
“Got it,” I say. I pour a glass of water and drink the whole thing, trying to clear my head after being up all night.
“She won’t ask, though,” says Meer. “She won’t even notice.”
“How is she not going to noticechickens?” Tatum asks.
“We’re gonna build a hutch over on the faraway part of the property. It’ll be economical in the end, because of all the eggs,” says Meer. “And it’s not just chickens. It’s a poultry grab bag.”
“What?”
“The guy who owns Meadowlark, he told me where I could order birds from. I went on the website thinking oh, maybe I’ll get Silkies because they’re just so hilarious-looking. Those are the super puffy ones. Then I thought no, maybe Plymouth Rocks, because they’re absolutely classic. Those are the black-and-white ones with the red combs. You know?”
Tatum shakes his head. “We have nowhere to put poultry. What are you thinking?”
“It’s gonna be fine,” says Meer. “I’m building a hutch. Anyway, I couldn’t decide, and then I saw they do a grab bag. Like, an assortment. You just get what you get and you don’t get upset.”
“Assortedchickens?” asks Tatum.
“It’s a grab bag ofpoultry,” Meer corrects him. “Ducks, turkeys, chickens, pheasants, geese—there could be anyone in there. And the best thing is, it said in the reviews, sometimes you just don’t know what it’s going to be until it grows up. Because if you know nothing about poultry, which is frankly what I know, you might think it was a chicken. Then it turns out it’s a pheasant! Or a turkey. Or whatever. I think we’ll be able to tell the ducks, for sure. They have that flat bill.”
I love Meer’s huge enthusiasms. And his optimism. I love that he listened to my random idea about raising chickens now and took action. He’s doing something to make himself less idle, to maybe find a passion or a direction that could make him happier. Here, in the sunny comfort of the kitchen, it doesn’t seem possible that he’sa genius painter masquerading as his famous missing father. He’s a poorly socialized sweetheart with low executive functioning and a dream of raising poultry.
