When Mom asked who lived in the LEGO castle, I should have said a king. Or a princess. Or an ogre who locked the princess in the tower. Something like that. Instead, I said:
“Nobody.”
“Nobody?”
“A family lived there, but they left.”
“Why?”
I shrugged.
She seemed sad. “Where’s the family now?”
I shrugged.
I don’t know why I said that about the family. It just popped in my head. But once I said it, it was the story, and I couldn’t change it. I tried to picture a green ogre in the throne room and a princess in the tower, but it was too late. There was a family. A family that wasn’t there anymore. Them not being there anymore was the important thing about the castle. Funny how saying something can do that.
Now Mom’s weird about the castle. She says how sad it’ll be when I destroy it, ’cause it’s so beautiful, but when I work on something else, like the helicopter, and I can’t find a piece, she’s like, “Welp, I guess that’s it.”
“What’s it?”
“The piece must be in the castle.” Sad sigh.
So normally maybe I would take it apart to get the rotor blade, which I remember now is a ceiling fan in the tower, but the way she’s holding her breath waiting for me to destroy the castle makes me not want to, so I pretend to find the right piece in the bin, and say, “Ah ha,” and stick it on.
Mom can see I stuck a steering wheel where the rotor blade should be, and she looks concerned, like maybe I’m not as smart as she thought. But then her face goes blank, and she gets up from the family room carpet and brushes a dust bunny off her shirt and leaves without saying anything.
* * *
Mom tells Dad about the castle at dinner. “It’s very impressive. You should see it before he has to take it apart. He said a family lived there but they left, didn’t you, Zack? I wonder if the family will come back. Such a nice castle to leave empty.”
“Maybe they went on vacation,” says Dad.
“Maybe. Did they go on vacation, Zack?”
“I dunno,” I say.
“Maybe they got tired of living in a castle,” says Dad.
Mom snorts. “Who gets tired of living in a castle?”
“It could be drafty.”
“It’s a very nice castle.”
“I’ve heard castles can be drafty.”
“Well, you haven’t even looked at it. What would you know?”
Dad drops his fork on his plate noisily, so I blurt out, “The princess ran away.”
“What?” says Mom.
“That’s why the rest of the family left.”
“To look for her?”
“I guess.”
“I see,” says Mom, nodding. Dad picks up his fork. We all quietly munch our food. Why did I say that about the princess? They were about to fight, so I said it. Now it’s what happened.
* * *
On the way to brush my teeth, Abby’s old bedroom door is open. Mom’s on the bed staring at the string of colored lights over the desk, squeezing Abby’s old stuffed duck. One of her hands grips the duck’s neck like she’s strangling it.
Abby used to do the duck’s voice. He was a psychiatrist named Hugh. “How are we feeling today?” he used to say, sitting on the edge of my bed in the nightlight glow. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Interesting.”
Mom notices me standing in the doorway. “Hey,” she says.
“Hey.”
I teeter, about to move down the hallway, but she asks, “Do you miss Abby sometimes?”
I readjust my feet to keep from falling. “Yeah,” I say.
“C’mere.”
She scoots over to make room on the bed, and I go in and sit. She lets the duck drop and leans over to squeeze me instead.
* * *
“The family came back,” I announce.
Dad swallows. “The castle family?” Wipes his mouth. “Did they find the princess?”
“No. They decided they would be okay without her. They’ll miss her, but they’ll be okay.”
I stayed awake last night thinking up these words to say at dinner.
Dad scrunches his eyebrows. “So… did they stop trying to find her? Or…”
“Well,” says Mom, “at some point they had to move on. Right, Zack?”
“Yes,” says Dad, “of course. At some point.”
“Yes,” says Mom.
Dad looks at the ceiling. “But when that point exactly is, actually, can, you know, sometimes…”
Mom taps her fork on her plate. “The point is, they’re back. That’s the point.”
“Right,” says Dad, smiling at me. “They’re back.”
Except it seems like they aren’t actually back. I don’t know why. I said it, and everyone agreed, but it didn’t work.
* * *
If you lie on your stomach on the floor next to the castle, you get a view almost like the castle is full-sized. The family room carpet stretches into the distance, a field of weedy brown. I blow on a dust bunny to make it roll like a tumbleweed.
I climb the castle steps and enter through the jagged-arched doorway. The knobby brick floor makes walking awkward. I sit on the throne. Dad was right about it being drafty, with that breath-wind over the carpet-plain. I shudder. A beard grows on my face. I am the old king now, wise and sad. The wind blows harder. One of the turrets breaks off the castle and rolls on the ground. Once the destruction starts, it can’t stop. The tower crumbles. The ceiling disintegrates. Rogue explosions from unseen cannons smash the walls to bits.
A scattering of old bricks lie around the lonely king, who fades away for lack of a castle.
The end.
* * *
“Zack took down the castle,” says Mom, sighing. “Did you ever see it?”
“Yes, of course,” says Dad uncertainly. “All good things come to an end.” He smiles at me. “So, Zack, what’s your next big project?”
I shrug, careful not to say anything.
* * *
Ⓒ David Hammond
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