The Doldrums

Archer turned and approached this well-whiskered man.

“Good evening, Mr. Glob of Seal,” he said.

Mr. Glockenspiel frowned. Mr. Helmsley tried his best not to laugh. Mrs. Helmsley found the task much simpler.

“It’s Glockenspiel,” she insisted. “Glock—en—spiel.”

“That is correct,” huffed the Glob of Seal.

Archer was glad this man’s name was not Glob of Seal. You wouldn’t go very far with a name like that.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Gawk and Squeal,” he said.

Mr. Helmsley nearly burst. Mrs. Helmsley grabbed Archer’s arm. She ushered him away from the Glob of Seal and assigned him the task of carrying a tray of cucumbers around to the guests.

“Just smile and nod,” she said, her hazel eyes looking terribly grave. “There’s no need to say another word tonight.”

While making his cucumber rounds, Archer spotted a scraggly looking gentleman sneaking down the halls as though he knew them well. Archer was curious and followed and watched as the man stumbled into an empty room. Archer poked his head through the door, but nearly shouted and dropped the cucumbers when he discovered the man staring straight back at him. The man nodded for Archer to enter, then eased himself into an armchair.

Archer stood silently before the stranger, thinking he looked most out of place at his mother’s dinner party. And though this man was old, his pale green eyes sparkled with life.

“You must be Archer Helmsley,” he said with a warm smile. “The wonderful grandson to Ralph and Rachel Helmsley. And you come bearing gifts, I see.”

Archer lifted the tray. “Would you like a cucumber?” he asked.

“Never cared for them much,” the man admitted, and twisted his head around the room while keeping his eyes on Archer. “Your grandparents have a lovely house. What do you think of them?”

Archer shrugged. “I’ve never met them,” he replied.

The man nodded. “I can’t say I’m surprised, but I’m sure you will soon enough.” He then lowered his voice, despite no one else’s being in the room. “Between you and me, they wouldn’t be terribly thrilled about all these gatherings riddled with scuttlebutt filling the great halls of Helmsley House.”

Archer wasn’t sure what scuttlebutt meant, but it made him smile. And he was glad to hear his grandparents weren’t fond of dinner parties either.

“There’s a fascinating world out there, Archer Helmsley,” the man continued. “But you’d never know that looking at these people.” He glanced at his watch. “Now I’m sorry to say I must be going. Mind giving me a shoulder?”

Archer lowered the tray.

“We’d best go as quickly as possible,” the man said, standing up and taking hold of Archer’s shoulder. “We want to avoid your—” he stopped.

Archer stared up at him. “Avoid who?” he asked.

The man smiled and shook his head. “Oh, no one,” he replied. “We just don’t want to get stuck in an undesirable conversation.”

Archer agreed. There were plenty of those on such nights. But he knew his house well and led the man on a roundabout way, through empty halls and down the stairs, till they arrived at the door without anyone being the wiser.

The man stood on the front steps, silhouetted in a silver streak by the streetlamps, and gazed down at him.

“Do they always dress you up like a Christmas tree?” he asked.

Archer’s green velvet suit and red dotted bow tie did make him look rather festive. Mrs. Helmsley said he looked like a gentleman, but Archer agreed with this man. He looked like a Christmas tree.

The man placed a firm hand on Archer’s shoulder and said, “Always remember you’re a Helmsley, Archer. And being a Helmsley means something.”

He turned to leave, but Archer stopped him with a question.

“How do you know my grandparents?” he asked.

“That’s a long story,” the man replied, without turning around. “Remind me to tell you the next time we meet.”

Archer watched the man hobble down the sidewalk, a little afraid he might stumble into oncoming traffic, until a hand reached out and shut the door.

“Who was that?” Mrs. Helmsley asked.

“I don’t know,” said Archer. “But he knows Grandma and Grandpa.”

Archer wished he were as lucky as that man. He’d never met his grandparents. They’d been traveling the world ever since he was born. To Archer, Ralph and Rachel Helmsley were a mystery wrapped in a secret—a secret he very much wanted to know. But his mother always changed the subject whenever their names were mentioned.

“Where’s your tray?” she asked.

Archer sighed and retrieved the tray, to continue with his cucumber rounds. “You’re a Helmsley … and being a Helmsley means something.” Archer wasn’t sure what that meant, but he was fairly certain it had nothing to do with cucumbers. Still, he weaved his way through the crowded rooms and was about to attempt a second escape when the porcupine on the radiator asked if it might try one.

“Yes,” said Archer. “But not in front of these people.”

He took the creature into the empty dining room.

“Those taste awful,” said the porcupine.

Archer tried one and agreed. He left the prickly fellow on a chair and went to the kitchen to find something better. While he was away, the guests entered the dining room to take their seats. Mr. Glockenspiel failed to notice that his seat was already occupied and hastily plopped his derriere right atop the porcupine. Archer returned from the kitchen but stopped in the doorway, watching as the guests gawked and Mr. Glockenspiel squealed. His father alone seemed to enjoy the scene.

“It was him!” shouted the Glob of Seal, rubbing his rear and pointing his chubby finger at Archer.

Mrs. Helmsley spun around in her chair and looked as though she was the one who’d just sat atop the porcupine.

“Did you do this?” she demanded.

Archer didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything.

It was no secret to him that little he did pleased his mother. And he knew she wasn’t as fond of the house as he was. But Mrs. Helmsley wasn’t a Helmsley by blood, and that’s often how it goes.

Things were different with his father.

♦ GAUDY LITTLE FELLOW ♦

Archer’s father, Richard B. Helmsley, was a lawyer. Archer didn’t know much about lawyers, and to be honest, he wasn’t interested. What did interest him were the secret trips he and his father took. These began when Archer was seven years old, and they had to be done in secret because his mother wouldn’t like the idea.

“Psst,” Mr. Helmsley had whispered one day.

“Hello!” blurted Archer.