School of Fear by Gitty Daneshvari Page B

quite complimentary on his body, and trust me, that is no simple feat.”
    “What does any of this have to do with saying Grace?” Garrison asked with agitation, unable to shake the image of a gushing
     river.
    “Patience, my sweaty boy,” Mrs. Wellington said with a glance at Garrison’s perspiration-covered face. “One day while fishing,
     the old man fell in. It was simply ghastly, his whole comb-over washed before his eyes. I wish you could ask him about it;
     he’d do a much better job, but that’s the tragedy of the deaf.”
    “Madame, I am more than capable of telling the story.”
    “Oh, very well,” Mrs. Wellington responded, as if suddenly aware of his hearing capabilities.
    “Madame often forgets that I am visually impaired, but my hearing is just fine. As for the story, Madame was quite a fan of
     the trout, so I often fished on the edge of Moon River.”
    “Schmidty, I certainly hope you aren’t implying it was my fault?”
    “Of course not, Madame. I am merely insinuating it was your fault. I think that’s the least I could do after your comb-over
     comment.”
    “Very well then, please continue.”
    “As I was saying, I was fishing at the edge of the river, standing on what appeared to be a large rock, but of course, my
     vision does not lend itself to details. Every few minutes the rock moved under the pressure of the currents, but I paid it
     no mind. The slight pull on my fishing line absorbed my attention, as the rock continued to move from the left to the right.
     I readjusted my feet while remaining focused on the fishing line. Then the rock moved out from beneath me, tossing me headfirst
     into the river. My body was pulled underwater and the currents wouldn’t let me surface. I was dying.”
    “This is a horrible story,” Theo fussed, dabbing moisture from his eyes, “even worse than that sandwich.”
    “Clearly he didn’t die. A little emotional control would do you good,” Mrs. Wellington said firmly.
    “I appreciate your concern, Mr. Theo. It’s not often that people show such emotion toward me,” Schmidty said while staring
     at Mrs. Wellington. “Now then. Where was I?”
    “You were drowning,” Madeleine offered helpfully before noticing the veritable river gushing from Garrison’s forehead. She
     considered telling the old man to quit the drowning story, but she thought it impolite. Instead, she stared longingly at Garrison
     to convey her heartfelt sympathy.
    “Buried beneath the water, I spotted a large green rock swimming toward me. It swam around me until I grabbed on. Then it
     pulled me ashore. I was unbelievably grateful, although I wondered if I was hallucinating, especially since the green rock
     was following me home. Once Madame saw the rock I learned it was actually a turtle —”
    Mrs. Wellington interrupted Schmidty excitedly, “I named her Grace, and once I showed her to the large tub, well, she never
     left. I didn’t mind; she did save Schmidty after all. If he had died who would have cooked my food to taste of Casu Frazigu
     or laundered my clothes?”
    “Thank you, Madame. Your concern is overwhelming.”
    Mrs. Wellington glanced at Schmidty before reaching toward the centerpiece. “We’ve kept her shell as a nice reminder of the
     turtle who used to live in the downstairs bathroom.”
    “That’s a dead turtle shell we knocked on?” Lulu questioned Mrs. Wellington.
    “Yes, dear, it is.”
    “Some turtles have salmonella. Do you realize what that can do to us? I think I feel a fever coming on,” Theo said while touching
     his forehead.
    “Grace didn’t have salmonella,” Mrs. Wellington said calmly. “I had Schmidty lick her shell to confirm it.”
    “It’s true, Mr. Theo. Nary a chill, fever, or nausea.”
    “It was a very productive activity, as we learned saliva is a good stand-in for furniture polish,” Mrs. Wellington said with
     a straight face.
    Garrison, desperate to erase thoughts of rivers and saliva from his mind,