Apologize, Apologize! - By Elizabeth Kelly Page 0,12

us!” Uncle Tom said in amazement, scratching his cheek, his fingers noisily scraping stubble.

Fortunately, I remembered that Ma’s cousin George was visiting. A mild, quiet-spoken veterinarian, he was as ordinary as a crew cut, but that night he was our only hope. Jumping to the floor and running from the room, I shouted his name as I ran along the hallway.

“Help! George, help!” I banged on his door, turned the knob, swung into the room, and flipped on the bedroom light.

“What the hell?” he said, instantly alarmed, popping up to a sitting position, squinting, hand at his forehead, struggling to understand what was happening.

“It’s Bingo. He can’t breathe. Help me. Please.” I dragged him by the hand, rushing him toward the room I shared with Bing.

“Good God!” he said, pushing through the dumbstruck audience of Ma and Pop and Uncle Tom, all of them looking down into the bed as Bingo, ribs shuddering, struggled for air, hissing and whistling like a steam kettle.

I looked on expectantly. It was the first time I’d seen George without his black-rimmed glasses, and where once he’d seemed bland and concave, now he seemed positively inflated with dynamism—the only thing missing was the cape. He didn’t hesitate for a second, picked Bingo up, cradled him against his chest, and issued calm instructions. His voice was as steady as a piston. He said, “Let’s get him to the hospital for emergency treatment,” and clearing a swath, he headed outside—I sat back in my bed, stunned to encounter an adult capable of decisive action—Ma and Pop following behind him, shrieking orders at each other.

I watched from my window as they climbed into George’s car and took off, George holding Bingo close, Pop driving wildly, and Ma screaming into the night.

“Is Bingo going to die?” I asked Uncle Tom, who’d been rendered almost sober by the night’s events. He rolled his eyes in exasperation as he slid next to me on the bed.

“I thought you were smart. That’s just about the dumbest question anyone has ever asked in the history of the world since the beginning of time. Now, if you’re so intelligent, spell ‘Mississippi.’ You can’t, can you?” he said, complaining all the while about having to sleep with me, even though it was his idea, not mine.

“At your age! Say, it’s nothing short of a national disgrace. When I was your age, I was the financial mainstay of the family, selling newspapers in the predawn hours on the corner of Newcastle and Abbey. How old are you, anyway?”

“I’m six,” I said.

“Six! I had no idea. I thought you were five. Six! Why, I was a corporal in the army by the time I was six and thriving on a steady diet of boiled Spanish onions and raw shrimp. So, what about it? Let’s hear you try to spell your mother’s middle name, Termagant.”

“T-e-r-m-a-g-a . . .”

Uncle Tom covered his eyes with his hands, pretending to beat on his forehead with clenched fists. “Haven’t I had enough to contend with tonight? I don’t have time for your nonsense. This is why no one with any sense likes children. They haven’t a thought for anyone but themselves. Mangle the English language on your own time for your teacher. At least she’s paid to pretend she’s interested. Good night and good riddance,” Uncle Tom said, gathering his pillow into a ball, shifting onto his side, his back in my face.

“Aren’t you going to get under the covers?” I asked him.

“And have you infect me with some intestinal parasite or ear mites? Your father picked up fleas from your mother on their honeymoon. . . .”

“He did not.” I giggled—the idea of my mother suffering from a plague of vermin had definite appeal.

Then I remembered. “T-e-r-m-a-g-a-n-t,” I spelled aloud, gazing at the back of his head, stubbornly finishing my assignment, though Uncle Tom pretended not to listen.

The spelling bee was a classic device Tom used to shut me up. But I was reading by the time I was four, and I was a pretty good speller, which frustrated him no end. Eventually, he resorted to making up words to stump me.

“Spell ‘auntiefrankensteinestablishmentitarianism,’” he said, his voice full of sarcasm.

He was prepared for me to get it right, which I often did.

“Wrong,” he said, carrying on with his housework, avoiding my eyes. “The first part is spelled ‘auntie,’ not ‘anti.’ Even the village idiot knows that.”

“It’s not a real word.”

“Oh yes, it is. I wouldn’t expect you to know with your