“Wait’ll you see television.”
“Tell-a-vision?” Edmund said. “Prophecy?”
“Not quite,” I said.
“Whatever tell-a-vision be, it must wait—I must ask ye now to lead me to the jakes.”
“The what?”
“The jakes. The necessary. The outhouse. Surely ye have one of those.”
“Let me show you,” I said.
Edmund gulped when he saw the bathroom.
“’Tis like—a sort of temple, so white and set about with basins. It’s never a jakes.”
“Watch me closely,” I said in a voice that I realized probably sounded like a kindergarten teacher’s. “You sit on that. It’s called the toilet. When you’re done you wipe yourself with some of that roll of paper. Then you flush—” I showed him how the handle worked “—and then you wash your hands in the sink. Got it?”
“I’ll do me best,” Edmund said.
“I’ll close the door. But I’ll be right outside. Okay?”
“Ah, okay.”
I waited in the hall. I heard the sounds of flushing and of water running in the sink.
The door opened.
“Must I really wash me hands every single time?” Edmund asked.
“Of course,” I said.
“Feels unnatural.”
“Germs.”
“What?”
“Didn’t Doctor Dee ever tell you anything about germs?” I said.
“Nay, that he did not.”
“My mom will explain all about them. And there’s something else I just thought of.”
“What would that be?” Edmund said.
“We bathe. Every single day. Sometimes more than once.”
“What ever for?”
“Again, germs.”
“But what if I don’t want these germs?” Edmund asked, clearly concerned. “What if I just want to be the way I am?”
“No, Edmund. You don’t get germs from bathing. You’ve got them already. Bathing every day keeps them down. And germs give you diseases.”
“Ye mean like plague?” Edmund asked.
“Yes, exactly like plague,” I said.
“And ye’ve no plague here?”
“Nobody I ever knew or ever heard of has ever had the plague.”
Edmund shook his head. “Ye’ve conquered the plague,” he said. “O, brave new world that hath such people in it.”
“Mom says soap and water can solve half the problems in the world,” I said.
“Very well. I will bathe. Show me what I must do.”
“Wait a minute—I am not going to show you how I bathe,” I exclaimed.
“I never meant for ye to uncover yourself to me. Just show me the equipments.”
“Tub,” I said and pointed. “Taps. Hot water. Cold water. This little gizmo closes the tub. Soap. Shampoo for your hair. Washcloth. Towel for drying off after.”
Edmund was taking everything in like a dry sponge. He pointed over my head and asked, “What is yon?”
“That’s the shower. Some people like showers better than baths.”
“And what does it do? Does it bathe ye, too?”
“Yes. It’s sort of like standing in the rain, only you can make it the temperature you want.”
“I would try it at once,” Edmund said. And he twisted the faucets as far as they would go and plunged his hands under the water.
“Great idea,” I said. “Hand your clothes out through the door and I’ll wash them for you.”
“But they’re the only clothes I’ve got,” he said.
“I’ll find you some others,’ I said. “Trust me, Edmund. Nobody wears codpieces any more.”
“Very good,” he said. “I will fear no evil.”
“Just don’t be afraid of the soap, either.”
I was glad Edmund was being so good about the bath thing. Because he stank. He reeked. It was worse than being with Dad on a three-day camping trip.
I put the smelly tights, shirt, and filthy unmentionables in the wash on gentle, which, since there were no labels with washing instructions, seemed like the safest bet. Then I went back to check on Edmund.
The shower was running full blast, and I could hear him splashing around.
“Everything okay in there?” I shouted.
“Okay, indeed!” he replied. “I’m never coming out.”
“I should tell you, the hot water runs out eventually.”
“Then I’ll come out when it does so,” he said. “This is the greatest work of man since the creation. If only Doctor Dee could know of it.”
I figured this was a good time to find something to cover him up when he was done. I left him splashing away, went into my mom’s bedroom and went through the closet and chest of drawers she’d shared with Dad.
There was quite a bit of his stuff left. He’d been traveling light when he went off to develop as an individual, and I could have dressed Edmund in anything from a three-piece suit (ten years old, but in great shape) to a Moroccan caftan with about a hundred buttons down the front. I decided to go for simple: tan pants, and a polo shirt. I found a belt and some white socks. Nothing would be an exact fit; Dad was taller than Edmund, and Edmund had broader shoulders, but I figured it would get him through till tomorrow. Then Mom and I could get him some stuff.
“Edmund, your clothes are outside the door,” I called as I set them down.
“Thank ye, Miranda,” he said.
A few minutes later, he came into the living room. He was a shade lighter, and his hair was damp. He’d managed the clothes. The shirt was on all right, and the pants were okay, except that the zipper was down.
“Edmund, that little metal thing down in the front? Pull it up.”
It took him three tries. Then he worked the zipper up and down another ten.
“Marvelous strange,” he said.
“Are you hungry?” I asked.
“Not a whit. But I would like another cola.”
“Help yourself.”
On his way to the kitchen, he paused by our flat-screen TV.
“What device is this?” he asked.
“Television,” I said. “Get your cola and I’ll show you how it works.”
I wasn’t going to throw Edmund in at the deep end of TV. I had the perfect introduction to the whole concept ready to go. It was a DVD of Romeo and Juliet. I’d watched about six productions as part of my preparation for my audition, and this one was ideal for him. The whole thing was staged in Elizabethan costumes and was done on a copy of an Elizabethan stage. And Mr. Gillinger had told us that R&J was one of Shakespeare’s two most popular plays. Maybe it would turn out Edmund had seen it.
When he came back, I got all teachery. “Now.