Too bad. I always had high hopes I'd stumble on a way to send Alvin back to his loving family in Nova Scotia.
As usual, it was marginally warmer inside the offices of Justice for Victims than outside. I kept on the fleece, the silk long underwear and the red thermal socks—good to thirty below. I figured it wouldn't take more than twenty minutes until my toes rejoined the party.
You get what you pay for in office space. In our case, not much. Justice for Victims is in a lousy financial position at best. It would be a hell of a lot worse if I took a realistic salary. Or if Alvin did.
Was it my imagination or could I see my breath? I put the hat back on.
“Guess you're not expecting anyone to drop in,” Alvin said.
I still didn't bite.
“Wind chill factor must be some new record. I can tell because all those little hairs on your upper lip are covered with frost.”
My hand shot up to my face.
“What hairs on my upper lip?” The words were out of my mouth before I could stop myself.
Alvin so often wins in the game of gotcha. As if it weren't bad enough being the stubby, dark-haired younger sister to a trio of elegant, willowy blondes, now I had a moustache. This could send my family into crisis. They'd have me waxed and plucked and probed by a dermatologist if they even suspected a hairy upper lip.
Alvin leaned back and flicked his ponytail over his shoulder. Behind the cat's eye glasses, his eyes glittered. He didn't react to the cold other than conversationally. The shirt with the parrot motif was a nice touch. So was the Jimmy Buffett CD. “Margaritaville” blasted out of Alvin's portable player.
But what was different about him? Ah. I spotted the squeeze tube of flash tan on the desk. That explained the coconut scent in the air. It also explained why Alvin's face was an odd shade of rust, as was one of his arms.
“Are you turning orange, Alvin? Perhaps you should seek medical attention before it's too late.”
“I'm using the power of positive thinking. You should try it. Decide it's not cold. Let your mind dictate to your body.”
“Assuming you have a mind,” I muttered. “The jury's still out.”
But Alvin wasn't finished. “If your mind dictates to your body, then you don't have to be a prisoner of winter and wear ugly clothes and have frost on your lip which makes you look like W. O. Mitchell. The white moustache, I mean, especially teamed with those red socks. Although, I'm not sure W.O. would have been caught dead in that hat.”
I picked up the coffee from his desk, bent down and retrieved the bag with the biscotti, and limped over to my own desk. I sat in silence and popped the lid. All the foam was gone. I took my first taste. Slightly better than a cold shower.
“It's not a style for everybody, but you carry it off, Camilla.”
Sometimes you have to make the best of adversity. On a typical day, I send Alvin on clusters of low-level yet time-consuming errands all over town: the post office, the dry cleaners, the bank. He finds addresses from the public library, pays traffic tickets at City Hall, and picks out birthday cards for my sisters, although after his last selection I had to stop that. But this could be the morning to send him to the drugstore for panty liners.
I dipped my biscotti into the flat cool latte and daydreamed about precisely what it would take to carry Alvin out of my life. I was rubbing my socks in an effort to restore feeling to my toes when the phone rang. And rang again.
“Answer the phone, Alvin.” I did not swear. I did not indulge in sarcasm. I did not hyperventilate. Not even on the third ring. I didn't want Alvin to press my buttons. This was harder than it sounds. “And take a message if it's one of my sisters.”
Midway through the fourth ring, before it flipped over to call answer, Alvin lifted the receiver with a languid hand and produced the kind of upbeat chirp you might expect in a chewing gum commercial.
“Justice for Victims. Good morning! Yes. Yes, it is. What? Oh! All right, certainly, I'll see if she's available. Please hold.”
“What? Of course I'm available. I'm right in front of you.” I reached over and snatched the receiver from Alvin's hand. “Camilla MacPhee here.”
“It's your sister,” Alvin said.
“Damn.” Too late. I didn't even have time to ask which one.
Edwina's measured tones drifted down the line. “Camilla, you have to get rid of that boy.” In a previous life Edwina might have been a head of state, leading the population through war and famine, brooking no opposition, keeping the dungeons full. Of my three sisters, she is the one I am least fond of finding on the end of a phone line.
“Perhaps you're right,” I said, “but I'm always afraid they'll bring back the death penalty.”
“Why can't he answer the phone like any normal person?”
“He can't, that's all. He just can't, and he'll never be able to. Deal with it and move on, Edwina. Or better yet, back me up the next time I try to tell our mutual father why I need a change of staff.”
“Oh, Camilla, you know how Daddy is about helping people. He'd never understand.”
Nicely understated. Somewhere back in time, my father had fond memories of Alvin's mother, now the widow of a spectacularly alcoholic shoe salesman. Alvin was number six of seven children and definitely in need of help. Since my father is the only person in the world I've never talked back to, Alvin continues to clog my life in his own special way.
My cellphone rang. This time Alvin answered on ring one.
“You're right, Daddy won't understand,” I said to Edwina. “And I'm stuck with the situation. So learn to call me at home.”
Alvin tapped my shoulder.
Edwina likes to dish out orders, not receive them. “No need to be snippy, Miss. I need your cooperation to deal with Alexa's wedding. The way it's going, it will drive the whole family crazy.”
I swatted at Alvin's hand. “Take a message,” I mouthed.
“The whole family's already crazy, Edwina,” I said. “And what do you have to complain about, anyway? It's not like you're stuck with being a bridesmaid. Try a little perspective.”
“Perspective?” Edwina sounded like she was choking. “Don't tell me to show a little perspective, Little-Miss-I-can't cooperate on any of the arrangements for my own sister's wedding because I was put on this earth to make life difficult for the human race.”
Alvin moved over to the front of my desk. He had his hand over the receiver. “I think you'd better take this one.”
“Listen, Edwina, if you mean the…”
“You know exactly what I mean.”
“No need to be nasty.”
I showed Alvin my middle finger.
Edwina sputtered from the receiver.
“Gotta go, Edwina. We should keep the discussions of the wedding to non-office hours, since you're so emotional.”
“What? You listen to me, Camilla MacPhee. You are the biggest problem we have. The point of my call is to tell you to shape up.”
Alvin stuck his face six inches from mine. Behind the pointy black spectacles his eyes were slits. He tried to wrap my hand around the receiver.
“One minute.”
“Don't you ‘one minute’ me,” Edwina barked. “Your sister has a well-deserved second chance at happiness, and she doesn't need you to act like a spoiled brat and ruin everything. Do I make myself clear?”