Jimmy’s birthday was soon organized. Aunt Patricia was there, so was Maurice, and there was what, to my untrained eyes, looked like a swarm of kids of Jimmy’s age, hastily dropped off by apologetic parents. The thing only lasted a few hours, so I’m told, yet I’m quite definite those hours each had 60 hours in them instead of 60 minutes. It was like holding on for dear life in a sticky, sugary tornado made of high-pitching, screaming hell-hounds. Maurice only survived by inventing a game called “Maupossum” and playing dead, and I by shutting myself off in the bathroom from time to time, frenetically trying to open the window wide enough to flee and never managing to do it without being interrupted by the dreaded shriek of “I need a peeeeeee”.
Then, at last, the parents came back and picked up their own demon from the screeching blur, which would cause an augmentation in the volume we wouldn’t have thought possible five minutes before, and finally, only Jimmy was left.
Aunt Patricia, Muffin, Maurice and I dropped on the couch and stared vacantly at nothing for a while, stupefied and exhausted, tasting the sweet, sweet silence.
That’s when Charles and the Tyrex came in, not only missing the action, but also looking like people who had purposefully done so. Charles had the good grace of exhibiting some embarrassment, and quickly set himself to clean things up and repair the damages done by the infernal flock.
It was a lot of work, and when Muffin announced dinner was ready and she had made muffins for dessert, we cheered her gratefully and set the table with joyous anticipation.
She brought us microwaved chicken breasts and steamed broccoli. We all dutifully and carefully congratulated her on the freshness of the chicken and the excellence of the broccoli, even though I could hear the trembling in Aunt Patricia bleating. The Tyrex ate most of our broccoli (and all of Jimmy’s), and the conversation was quite hushed.
It’s only when she brought her muffins that we couldn’t help but gasp and exchange looks.
Her delicious muffins were only shadows of themselves, or maybe more the equivalent in a dark dimension. A very dark dimension where people are obviously starving and dying of dysentery left and right.
We munched in a deep silence. None of us could bring himself to say anything. I was desperately trying to think of a compliment, any compliment I could possibly make about what I was conscientiously doing my best to swallow while not moving it around too much in my mouth, as it was so dry I would certainly asphyxiate, and so disgusting I wasn’t sure I wouldn’t gag. I could see Aunt Patricia poking hers with a fork, and the muffin both went “poc” and crumbled, as impossible as it sounds, and I’m quite certain I saw the fork bending.
At last, she said, hesitating:
“Are you sure of this recipe, dear?
– It is a bit dry, acknowledged Muffin, but very healthy!”
We all opined at the “dry” part. I had doubts about the healthiness of something that so clearly wanted to kill me, but kept them to myself.
“And what about your real muffins, Muffin? said the Tyrex. You know, the good ones?”
A heavy silence fell like a leaden lid.
“Those are my muffins now, Tyrex, answered Muffin frostily. Those won’t make you fat.
-You mean… you’ll never make the good ones again?
-Those are the good ones!
-There’s been some sort of mistake maybe? I remember that time Blue put salt instead of baking powder in a cake and nobody could eat it…
-There’s been no mistake!! If you don’t like my muffin, don’t eat it!”
It was like watching a tennis match with a big storm gathering on the court. None of us dared move a muscle. I could see Maurice’s eyes twitching nervously. Charles was shrinking in his seat, and Aunt Patricia looked more and more bewildered.
“I don’t see how anybody could like that, retorted the Tyrex. I don’t even think anybody can eat that, Blue salty cake was better than that!”
Each that was punctuated with him picking up the muffin, lifting it and letting it fall back on the plate, with a “poc” sound that made me worry for the plate’s integrity. At the fourth one, the plate broke with an unsettling crack. Muffin, who was growing redder and redder each time, finally exploded.
“Why do you talk do me like that, you fat Tyrex!!! You look like a fat, wobbly barrel with barbecue forks for arms, hams for legs, and a stupid idiot empty head on top!”
Now dear Reader, I have to intervene and tell you that this is not true. You may have gotten a wrong idea of the Tyrex, what with him eating all the time, so you may have thought, ok, what we have here is the personification of a stereotypical fat guy, and I’m sorry I accidentally misled you. He certainly eats all the time, but not that much, and only random things. Don’t get me wrong, he could use some more exercise, and definitely would benefit from a healthier diet, and he has what we French call a life preserver around the waist, however it is more a matter of body shape than of, strictly speaking, “being fat”, whatever that means. Some people are just born with big bones and tiny arms!
I had to admit that the stuff about the barrel and the forks were quite accurate. I didn’t say so, of course, I was deflating my feathers, making myself as small as I could, and avoiding any kind of eye contact with the others. Muffin was going on.
“You don’t like my muffins, do you? Then you know where you can go and put them?? HUH?? Maybe it will stop your dumb face to contort itself like a full freaking circus, Maurice!
-Oh dear, baaed Aunt Patricia.
-YOU TOO, AUNTIE PATTIE! And Charles, I swear, if you start one of the neverending snoozefest you call a speech, I’ll put the muffin myself, you know where!!”
Poor Charles had barely breathed. I huddled against him and closed my eyes, bracing myself for my turn, when I was saved by the tiny, shaking voice of Jimmy, who was on the verge of tears.
“Mama? Why are you angry? Where do you want to put the muffins?”
We could see Muffin trying to contain herself, and I’m sure she would have, but the poor child innocently added:
“Is it in the bin? I really think we should throw them away, Mama, I don’t think we should eat them…”
One minute later, poor Jimmy was in bed and we were all in the street.
“You need to do something, said Aunt Patricia. I don’t recognize my sweet Muffin anymore!!
-We need to do something, said Charles, this is going too far!
-We need to do something, said the Tyrex, or she will never make her good muffins again!!
-You need to do something, said Maurice, I’m out of here, this is too much for me!”
He left us. I sighed:
“How could that happen? Is this all our fault because we helped her last time? I feel so guilty.
-You shouldn’t, said Aunt Patricia. It’s not your fault. It’s the fault of the Big Bad Gym.
-We will unite our forces and find a solution to remove that gym from her life, said Charles. Gentlemen and ladies, what we need is… a conspiracy!”