Furthermore(46)

Tim seemed to understand.

“Oliver paid me a visit,” he explained, “the last time he was in Furthermore. I’d respectfully requested that—in the very likely chance he should fail in his mission—he return the pocketbook to me. And now he’s here, true to his word.” Tim folded his hands on his desk and took a moment to smile at Oliver in a kind, fatherly fashion, which, truth be told, was uncomfortable to witness, as Tim had the face and build of a seven-year-old and appeared to be in no position to have fathered anyone.

“But why was Oliver here before?” Alice asked. “What did he need the pocketbook for?”

“Well,” Tim said, surprised. “To find your father’s pocket, of course.”

“My father’s—I’m sorry,” she said, stunned, “my father’s pocket is in there?”

“Yes,” Oliver said quickly. “The pocketbook brought me to Tim the last time I was here. I needed to hand over to him the contents of your father’s pocket.”

“Oliver!” Alice gasped, horrified. “You just handed over Father’s things to someone else? How could you?”

Oliver sat up in his seat. “No,” he said, “it wasn’t—I didn’t—”

“Your father got himself into a bit of a bind,” Tim said gently. “Oliver was only trying to help mend the matter.”

“What?” Alice looked at Oliver, panicked. “Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?” she cried. “What did Father do? Was it awful? Did he . . . eat someone?”

(Tim flinched at that last bit, but we won’t dwell on it.)

“Of course not,” said Oliver. “But he took far too much time to make a decision. Remember, Alice—we talked about this—it’s a grave offense.”

Alice was stunned. It took her a full minute to find her voice, and when she did, she said, “That is one of the most ridiculous rules I’ve ever heard in all my life.”

Tim cleared his throat, visibly offended, studied a chipped corner of his desk and pinched his bottom lip between two fingers. Finally he dropped his fingers and, affecting a tone of sympathy, said, “See, it’s quite simple, really. In Furthermore we do not waste time, share time, or spare time, and I’m afraid your father took more than his measure. Because what he took belonged to me, I was the only one with permission to search his pockets.” He paused. “Though I’m afraid there wasn’t much to reclaim. I had no choice but to repossess his ruler.”

Alice’s hands fell into her lap as she sat straight up and stared, unblinking, at Tim’s round, ticking face. His mouth twitched; his hands twitched. He looked like an old clock.

Suddenly, Alice understood.

“Is that what Ted meant?” she said slowly. “About being arrested?” She looked from Tim to Oliver. “Was Father arrested for taking too much time?”

Tim’s eyebrows hiked up an inch and his oversized glasses slipped down his nose. “Yes, I’d say so,” he said, pushing the glasses back into place. “I’d say so, yes.”

“Oh my.” Alice had taken to flapping her hands around as the seriousness of it all finally set in. “Oh, oh, oh—”

“I know this isn’t much in the way of comfort,” Oliver said gently, “but . . . would you like to see his pocket?”

Alice dropped her flapping hands. And nodded.

Oliver checked to make sure it was alright with Tim, and Tim tilted his head approvingly. Oliver gave Alice a warm smile, cracked open the pocketbook, and Alice was on her feet and looking over Oliver’s shoulder in the same second it took Tim to sneeze. The old, musty pages of the pocketbook had unleashed a foot of dust into the air, and while Tim used up the moment to blow his boyish nose, Oliver bent over the book with great care. The spine creaked and wheezed like an ancient staircase mounted by mighty beasts, and though Oliver did his best to be gentle, he couldn’t help but disturb the peace of the pocketbook.

Alice was no help either.

She was so amazed—so very enchanted—she reached out and touched it.

Jabbed it, really.

She pressed a firm finger against a page and Oliver jolted in his seat, dropping the book in horror. Tim shook his head, sighed, and sneezed twice more into his handkerchief. But worst of all—worst of all—the book actually yelled at her.

Oliver snatched the book off the floor—shooting Alice an admonishing look as he moved it out of her reach—and though he tried to turn the affronted page, the affronted page was refusing to turn.

“Oh, be good,” Tim finally said, waving his handkerchief at the pocket. “No need to throw a fit,” he said. “She was only curious.”

“I didn’t realize a pocket could be angry,” Alice said.

“These pockets belong to actual people,” Oliver explained. “Some of them are attached to the clothes they’re still wearing. I believe the woman you just poked was sleeping,” Oliver said, fighting back a smile. But his search for Father’s pocket was taking a lot longer than Alice had expected, and it was making her anxious.

“Is Father’s pocket attached to him, too?” she asked, hoping no one could hear the desperation in her voice.

Oliver shook his head.

Her heart sank.

“Pockets,” Tim explained, “are usually catalogued only after they’ve been lost. Abandoned. Sometimes a person will want to index the contents of an important pocket they’re still wearing, but most others prefer privacy. A pocketbook is often the best place to search for things we’ve misplaced.” Tim clapped a hand on Oliver’s shoulder and smiled at Alice. “Very clever of your friend to go looking for it, don’t you think?”