sleeping bag.
“Prevents wrinkles,” he says.
He repeats the process with his pants and
his shorts and even his underwear until his
suitcase is filled.
A model of uptight organization.
Then he sits down on his bed.
“I heard that you saw your dad,” he says.
“Yes, well, we’re not talking about that. It
was a profound waste of time.”
“Okay,” he says.
And rolls up another shirt.
“I was raised by my aunt,” he says.
I look over at my intern.
“You were what?” I ask.
“My aunt. She raised me.”
“You didn’t say anything about that.”
“I know. I don’t talk about it a lot.”
I loosen the dumb tie that my mother made
me wear.
“Why’d you have to be raised by her?” I
ask.
“Dunno,” he says. “I guess she’s the one
who wanted to do it. Or could. Or something.”
“Oh,” I answer. “Well, that was nice of
her, I guess.”
“Yeah. She’s very nice. A little strict. But
nice.”
I take my tie off and throw it on the floor.
“So that’s where you live now?” I ask.
“With your aunt?”
He nods. “Well, I spend most of the year
with her and part of the year with my uncle.”
“Doorman Dave?”
“Yeah. Doorman Dave.” He laughs. “He’s
the one who takes me to all the fun places dur-
ing the summer.”
“This place is hardly fun,” I remind him.
“I’ve liked it,” he says. “It’s been exciting.
Going to the beach. Spending time with you.
Raising money for the investigation.”
He smiles.
“I was even thinking about what piece of
furniture we could sell next,” he adds.
And as he says it, I hear loud footsteps
thundering down the bedroom hallway.
So I peer outside.
And see this:
“You’re stealing our furniture to raise
money for more chicken dinners!” I cry.
But my polar bear doesn’t answer.
He just turns and flees.
And I am too tired to chase him.
So I walk back into the bedroom and lie
down.
“Sell whatever you want,” I tell Emilio. “I
just don’t care.”
And I roll over.
And fall asleep.
When I wake up the next day, the room is
empty.
Except for Edward Higglebottom the
Third, who is out of his box and dangerously
close to my nose.
“Is there nowhere safe on this entire
island?” I cry.
So I throw on my clothes and leave the
house.
Wanting nothing more than for time to
pass so I can leave this stupid place.
And thus I wander the streets.
Eventually arriving at the author’s house
where I met my father.
And I sit on the bench.
Alone.
And hear a scream from the sky.
“TIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIMMMMMMMM-
MMY!”
So I look up.
And there, at the top of the lighthouse
across the street, is my unpaid intern.
“Hiya!” he yells. “I hope you don’t mind,
but I had to sell your shoes to get up here. The
ones you wore with your fancy clothes.”
“Emilio Empanada, what are you doing
way up there?” I shout from the base of the
lighthouse.
“Trying not to be afraid of everything,” he
answers. “Which isn’t easy. Because I’m still
afraid.”
And even from a distance, I can see his
knees shaking.
“Remember how you said that if you’re
determined to succeed in life, nothing can stop
you?” he shouts.
“Except maybe a truck,” I add.
“Yeah, well, I thought everyone should
know that. But I didn’t have quite enough
room for the whole quote. So I shortened it a
bit.”
“What are you talking about?” I yell up at
him.
“Follow me.”
He walks to the opposite side of the
lighthouse.
And I follow him around and look up.
It is the first time I have seen my name
displayed so prominently in a public forum.
“I wrote it in chalk so that I can’t get
arrested or anything. Plus, Bongo Billy said it
was okay.”
I stare in awe at my own name, writ large
across the city skyline.
“You may erase two demerits,” I proudly
tell my intern. “Perhaps even three.”
“Oh, and that’s not all,” he adds.
“What else?” I shout up at him.
Emilio disappears into the interior of the
lighthouse.
And appears again at the bottom.
“I think I solved the mystery.”
Emilio runs through the streets holding a
shovel high overhead.
“What do you need that for?” I ask, sprint-
ing behind him.
“For the treasure! I think I know where it is.”
I am immediately skeptical. For the
number of mysteries solved through the ages
by an unpaid intern is exactly:
“Start explaining,” I yell at him as I run.
“And keep in mind that you are talking to a
seasoned professional.”
“The clues are all in the poem!” Emilio
says as he runs. “‘From on high I’m the guy.’”
“What about it?”
“‘With a ship in his grip’!”
“I know the dumb poem!” I remind my
intern.
“But I saw him!” shouts Emilio. “From the
top of the lighthouse!”
“Who?”
“The guy with the ship in his grip! It’s a
big statue. It was impossible to miss!”
“Yes, well, I would have seen it first if you
had allowed me the proper amount of time up
there!”
He ignores me and darts down a narrow
street filled with old homes and large palm
trees.
“It was somewhere near here,” he says.
“Just past that last house.”
Emilio races to the end of the block.
Confident. Brave.
And confronting his fears.
And turning the corner, he finds where
the statue is located.
And must now confront one more.
Emilio stares at the graveyard, silent as the
graves themselves.
But for his eyes.
Which slowly scan from one crumbling
end of the graveyard to the other.
“My aunt raised me because my parents
are in heaven,” he says.
Not looking back at me.
“I was a baby,” he adds. “I don’t remember
them.”
I put my hand on his shoulder.
“You don’t have to go in if you don’t want
to,” I tell him.
“I know,” he says, motionless.
“We can just go home,” I remind him.
“I know.”
And with that, he turns and walks back to
the cemetery gates.
“Fear,” he says, his back turned to me.
“Fear is okay,” I tell him.
“Fear,” he repeats.
“It’s okay.”
“Fear,” he says again, turning to face me,
“must never hold a detective back.”
And he runs.
Into the graveyard.
Past the headstones.
Over the graves.
Like a rabbit let loose from its cage.
“’Cause the brave earn the grave’!” he
yells as he runs. “’Cause the brave earn the
grave’!”
And I chase after him.
“It’s not a threat, Timmy! It’s a reward!”
And he is right.
For the brave do earn the grave.
And there before us is our reward.
“Dig!” he shouts, handing me the shovel. “I’ll
watch for assassins!”
So I slice into the fresh dirt.
And as I do, the grave slithers and stirs.
And I am once again face-to-face with the
Green Monster of Doom.
So I glance over at Emilio.
And back at my foe.
And then I do this:
Scaring the beast.
And clearing the grave.
And raising the shovel high overhead, I
thrust it into the soft dirt.
And I dig.
And I dig.
And I dig.
And there, a few inches below the surface,
I hit something.
“The treasure!” shouts Emilio.
“An envelope,” I answer.
“Is it gold coins?”
“I can’t feel any,” I reply, patting down the
outside of it.
“Well, open it!” he yells.
So I open it.
And find a piece of paper.
“This is no captain’s treasure!” I shout.
“It’s just a stupid piece of paper.”
“Let me see,” says Emilio, grabbing it
from my hands.
“You can have it,” I tell him. “It’s worth-
less.”
So Emilio examines the document.
And hands it back to me.
“It’s not worthless, Timmy. It’s a college
savings bond. And it’s got your name on it.”
“A college savings what?” I ask.
“Bond.”
“What the heck is that?”
“I think it helps you pay for college one
day. And it’s for a thousand dollars.”
I grab the piece of paper back.
“A thousand dollars? Who would want to
pay a thousand dollars for me to go to college?”
And as I say it, I see the answer to my own
question.
Printed neatly in the corner of the savings
bond.
I walk home, securely clutching the captain’s
treasure to my chest.
I think about thanking my father with a
telegram.
But he’s an international secret agent.
And I wouldn’t know where to send it.
And besides, secret agents don’t have time
to answer.
Because fighting crime is a full-time job.
As I am reminded when I enter our kitchen.
And see the worst thing a human being
can ever see:
So I grab the cereal box and prepare to
dump its contents on the floor.
“Hey,” says Doorman Dave, seated at the
table, “I’m eating that.”
I stare at Dave.
And put the box back on the table.
“Sorry, Dave,” I tell him. “Enjoy your cold
cereal. It’s the least a man can have on his
honeymoon.”
“Thanks, Timmy.”
And I look back at the laptop and see
that we are all still exposed to the evil that is
Corrina Corrina.
So I slam the laptop shut as she talks.
“Did your room just go dark or some-
thing?” asks Corrina Corrina.
“Yes, we had a power outage,” I inform
her. “And I know you’re calling to harass me
about the book report, and you can be assured
it will be done—”
“Beautifully!” she ends my sentence.
“Beautifully?” I ask.
“Yeah, it was e-mailed to me. It’s amazing.
So much detail. You really understood those
books, Timmy.”
I think of my polar bear. And his limited
skill set.
“Was the spelling okay?” I ask. “It didn’t
sound like Tarzan or something? You know,
like ‘Me want . . . Me need . . . Me eat’?”
Corrina Corrina laughs. “You’re being
silly,” she says. “Anyhow, good work.” And
ends the call.
And as she does, my mom hands me the
house phone.
“Another call for Mr. Popular,” she says.
“But don’t talk too long. We have to finish
packing.”
And on the other end I hear the voice of
Abraham Lincoln.
Who is no longer Abraham Lincoln.
“The play was canceled,” says Rollo,
sounding disappointed. “The stage curtain had
to be dry-cleaned.”
“So?” I ask.
“Well, I had nothing else to do, so I just
went ahead and did your book report.”
I stand there silent, in awe of my noble,
round friend.
“I owe you, Rollo Tookus. Rest assured, you
will be given an ownership stake in my detec-
tive agency just as soon as we incorporate.”
“That’s okay,” he says. “I actually like
doing book reports.”
“Okay, well, that’s weird. But I like you
anyway.”
“Okay,” he says. “I’ll see you when you get
home tomorrow.”
“Yeah,” I answer. “And Rollo . . .”
“What?” he asks.
“Thank you.”
There is not much left to say.
Except that I might be spending a lot more
time with Emilio Empanada.
“My aunt says it would be fine if me and
Edward Higglebottom the Third spent more
time with you and your mom and Dave!” he
tells me on the long drive home. “Maybe the
whole summer.”
“That’s good,” I tell him. “As there may
be a paid position opening up in the detective
agency.”
“Why is that?”
“Because I’ve been contacted by my
polar bear. And I may have to fire him for
incompetence.”
And as I finish talking, my mother takes a
call on her cell phone.
“Timmy,” she says, leaning back over the
front seat, “do you by chance know anything
about missing furniture at the rental house?”
“Why are you asking me?”
“Because that was the owner of the house
we rented. She says they’re missing stuff.”
I look over at Emilio.
And then back at my mother.
“You should never have let Corrina
Corrina see the inside of our house,” I tell her.
“Sounds like the poor girl robbed us blind.”
&n
bsp; My mother shakes her head at me and
goes back to talking on the cell phone.
And as she argues about rental deposits
and missing furniture, Dave pulls the car off
the highway and into the parking lot of a gas
station convenience store.
“Last chance to get snacks for about thirty
miles,” says Dave.
I don’t want any, so I stand outside the
store, in the middle of nowhere, as Emilio and
Dave go inside.
And when Emilio comes back out, there is
a large soda stain on the front of his shirt.
“That’s okay,” says Emilio. “It’s just a
dumb shirt.”
I smile, proud of my intern’s emotional
progress.
And as we wait for Dave, I walk to the edge
of the parking lot and stare out at the endless
landscape of high grass.
Aware of the infinite possibilities that
await us.
And as I do, I feel a tiny itch-like crawl
upon the top of my head.
MORE MEMOIRS. MORE GREATNESS.
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