had in common; otherwise one would never guess they’d shared the same parents.
Uncle Royce was a mantic consultant in San Francisco. He lived in an old butter-yellow house on Nob Hill—a house, in fact, that was more famous than he was. After the cataclysm of 1906, every home on Nob Hill had burnt to the ground. All except one—Uncle Royce’s butter-yellow house. It was the talk of the town in the months after; a popular song had even been written about it. Will had always suspected Laddie’s hand in that. Laddie moved in circles that included musical people, and Uncle Royce had been so amusingly vexed by hearing the jaunty air spilling out of every Victrola from the Mission to the Bay, that if Laddie had had a hand in it, it was a matchless coup. All the brothers enjoyed vexing Uncle Royce. All of them, apparently, except one.
“I’ve had a letter from your brother Ben,” Uncle Royce said in a low voice, once they were in the entryway. “He says you’re still upset about Detroit.”
Will recalled the furious, impassioned letter he’d written to Ben after his fight with Father. Of course he was still upset. But at the moment, he was more astonished by the fact that his brother had mentioned him—that he was a topic of discussion. Did Ben mention him to other members of the family, too? Did he tell them what he wrote in his letters? The very idea sent a chill of embarrassment through him.
“He is worried about you,” Uncle Royce continued, when Will did not speak. “He thinks you might do something foolish.”
“Foolish?” Will snorted. Like try and drive Pask’s jalopy two thousand miles cross-country, as he’d imagined he might? But of course he didn’t say this, because that did sound foolish. Instead, he drew himself up and attempted to speak with manly dignity. “Uncle Royce, all I want is to go to Detroit and take the apprenticeship that Tesla Industries has offered me—and honestly, if I can figure out a way to accomplish that, foolish or not, then Ben is right to be worried.”
Uncle Royce closed his eyes wearily. When he opened them, though, his gaze was keener than before.
“William. Like it or not, your father is completely correct. Tesla Industries is the wrong place for you right now.”
“Why?” Will pounced on the words before they were out of his uncle’s mouth, for they were the very same words he’d heard from Father.
Uncle Royce paused, clearly formulating a careful response. When he finally spoke, however, all he said was, “Do you recall a book I once gave you for your birthday? The Adventures of Pinocchio ?”
As if he could forget! Uncle Royce’s birthday presents were a grim joke among the brothers. He always bought the most unwelcome gifts, as though he studied the boy and purchased the things he was least likely to enjoy. For Laddie it was always sporting equipment. For stay-at-home Nate, theater tickets. For Will, who never could stand reading—books. And what books! Uncle Royce had a knack for finding the queerest and most disturbing children’s books in existence, of which, in Will’s opinion, The Adventures of Pinocchio ranked near the top.
“Which part are you suggesting I recall?” Will lifted a cool eyebrow. “The Fairy with the Turquoise Hair, or the Terrible Dogfish?”
“The Land of Toys,” Uncle Royce replied pointedly. “Where boys are lured in by their own base impulses and transformed into asses.”
“Base impulses!” Will barked. “I’m not chasing a showgirl or going to work for a whiskey manufacturer. I want to work. To learn .”
“Whether it’s a desire for whiskey or a desire for learning, when you use it as an excuse to hurt everyone around you, then it’s a base impulse,” Uncle Royce hissed.
“Will! Royce!” Ma’am’s voice shrilled from the dining room. “What are you waiting for? Come in and sit down, we’re all ready to eat!”
“ I haven’t hurt anyone,” Will returned furiously, hardly registering his
Uncle Royce was a mantic consultant in San Francisco. He lived in an old butter-yellow house on Nob Hill—a house, in fact, that was more famous than he was. After the cataclysm of 1906, every home on Nob Hill had burnt to the ground. All except one—Uncle Royce’s butter-yellow house. It was the talk of the town in the months after; a popular song had even been written about it. Will had always suspected Laddie’s hand in that. Laddie moved in circles that included musical people, and Uncle Royce had been so amusingly vexed by hearing the jaunty air spilling out of every Victrola from the Mission to the Bay, that if Laddie had had a hand in it, it was a matchless coup. All the brothers enjoyed vexing Uncle Royce. All of them, apparently, except one.
“I’ve had a letter from your brother Ben,” Uncle Royce said in a low voice, once they were in the entryway. “He says you’re still upset about Detroit.”
Will recalled the furious, impassioned letter he’d written to Ben after his fight with Father. Of course he was still upset. But at the moment, he was more astonished by the fact that his brother had mentioned him—that he was a topic of discussion. Did Ben mention him to other members of the family, too? Did he tell them what he wrote in his letters? The very idea sent a chill of embarrassment through him.
“He is worried about you,” Uncle Royce continued, when Will did not speak. “He thinks you might do something foolish.”
“Foolish?” Will snorted. Like try and drive Pask’s jalopy two thousand miles cross-country, as he’d imagined he might? But of course he didn’t say this, because that did sound foolish. Instead, he drew himself up and attempted to speak with manly dignity. “Uncle Royce, all I want is to go to Detroit and take the apprenticeship that Tesla Industries has offered me—and honestly, if I can figure out a way to accomplish that, foolish or not, then Ben is right to be worried.”
Uncle Royce closed his eyes wearily. When he opened them, though, his gaze was keener than before.
“William. Like it or not, your father is completely correct. Tesla Industries is the wrong place for you right now.”
“Why?” Will pounced on the words before they were out of his uncle’s mouth, for they were the very same words he’d heard from Father.
Uncle Royce paused, clearly formulating a careful response. When he finally spoke, however, all he said was, “Do you recall a book I once gave you for your birthday? The Adventures of Pinocchio ?”
As if he could forget! Uncle Royce’s birthday presents were a grim joke among the brothers. He always bought the most unwelcome gifts, as though he studied the boy and purchased the things he was least likely to enjoy. For Laddie it was always sporting equipment. For stay-at-home Nate, theater tickets. For Will, who never could stand reading—books. And what books! Uncle Royce had a knack for finding the queerest and most disturbing children’s books in existence, of which, in Will’s opinion, The Adventures of Pinocchio ranked near the top.
“Which part are you suggesting I recall?” Will lifted a cool eyebrow. “The Fairy with the Turquoise Hair, or the Terrible Dogfish?”
“The Land of Toys,” Uncle Royce replied pointedly. “Where boys are lured in by their own base impulses and transformed into asses.”
“Base impulses!” Will barked. “I’m not chasing a showgirl or going to work for a whiskey manufacturer. I want to work. To learn .”
“Whether it’s a desire for whiskey or a desire for learning, when you use it as an excuse to hurt everyone around you, then it’s a base impulse,” Uncle Royce hissed.
“Will! Royce!” Ma’am’s voice shrilled from the dining room. “What are you waiting for? Come in and sit down, we’re all ready to eat!”
“ I haven’t hurt anyone,” Will returned furiously, hardly registering his
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