The French Philosopher

Veronica’s parents passed the Chinese food containers around at dinner. No one had bothered transferring the food into serving dishes.

“Who do you guys think I should go trick-or-treating with?” Veronica asked them point-blank.

“Well, which party did you get invited to first?” Mr. Morgan said. He unrolled a pancake and filled it with moo shu pork.

“I didn’t get invited to any parties, Daddy.” Veronica fumed. Was her father not listening? Or was he really unable to follow even the simplest idea?

“You know what he means,” her mother said. “Who invited you trick-or-treating first?”

“I don’t know. Not technically.”

“Technically? It is a pretty simple question,” her mother said, glancing at her father. If only, Veronica thought. She spread hoisin sauce on her pancake. “Well, Melody invited me a while ago but she had to check with her mother and she only got back to me today and Athena confirmed with me today also—”

Her parents raised their eyebrows, which meant they had just invented a psychological theory about something. Veronica wished they would just be normal.

“Marvin, pass the watercress. Honey, technically, Melody invited you first.”

“But you don’t understand. I didn’t go to Sarah-Lisa’s party and I think they’re still mad at me about that.” Veronica carefully rolled her pancake while her parents watched. They said nothing.

As usual, when Veronica wanted their advice, they kept their mouths shut. Why couldn’t they do that the rest of the time—like when she had no interest in their opinions?

Her father was busy trying to remove a fried dumpling from its foil tray with a pair of chopsticks. “You know, there is a very famous story,” he said, chopsticks in hand, “of a man who didn’t know what to do. His mother was dying in a hospital in France and he was offered the job of his dreams in Germany. ‘If I take the job, I will never see my mother again,’ he said. ‘If I stay and say goodbye to my mother I will never have this professional opportunity again. It is the job I always wanted.’ He was paralyzed by indecision. He couldn’t move. Much like my problem with this dumpling, coincidentally.”

Veronica and her mom couldn’t take their eyes off Mr. Morgan struggling with his chopsticks.

“So,” Mr. Morgan continued, “the man sought the advice of a famous French philosopher.”

“Marvin,” Mrs. Morgan said.

“Marion,” Mr. Morgan said.

“Use a fork.”

“Good idea,” he said, spearing the dumpling. “Yummy.”

Veronica tried not to watch the pork juice dribbling down his chin, heading for his tie. Mrs. Morgan handed her husband a napkin, which he placed on his lap.

“Your chin,” she said, and threw her hands in the air.

“Ah, thank you,” Marvin Morgan said, and dabbed his chin. “My story reminds me of Veronica’s predicament. Should she go with the one girl? Or should she go with the other girls? Veronica, do you see the connection with the story your wise and wonderful father is telling?”

“Yes, Daddy, duh. The man doesn’t know what to do. Neither do I.”

“Excellent. So what do you think the man should do?”

“I don’t even know what I should do. How do I know what that man should do?” Veronica found herself rubbing her finger on the caning of her dining room chair a little too hard.

“Marvin, tell your daughter what the philosopher said.”

“Thank you, Marion. The philosopher said: ‘It doesn’t matter what you do. Just do something.’”

“That’s it?” Veronica and her mother shouted, in unison.

“Daddy! That is totally unsatisfying and completely unhelpful and I still don’t know what to do.”

“That is because, my dearest daughter, you can’t be two places at once, so just keep your word.”

“Or, what if you tried to all go together?” Mrs. Morgan said.

“No, Mommy,” Veronica said.

What a ridiculous idea. No one told Athena and Sarah-Lisa what to do. They told you.

*   *   *

And yet, the next day, in the cafeteria, that is exactly what she found herself doing.

“My parents will probably like a bigger group,” Sarah-Lisa said. “With four of us they’ll think it’s safer. How many apartments are in your building?”

Veronica couldn’t believe it was so easy.

“Well,” she said, “fourteen floors and three apartments on each floor—”

“Are there really fourteen floors?” Athena asked. “Or are there actually thirteen floors and they call the thirteenth floor fourteen because they don’t want to give anyone bad luck by living on the thirteenth floor?”

“I hate when they do that,” Sarah-Lisa said. “Don’t the people on the fourteenth floor know they really live on the thirteenth floor?”

Veronica had wondered this before too. Her apartment building did actually only have thirteen floors but, like Athena said, they called the thirteenth floor fourteen.

“There’s only thirteen floors,” Veronica said nervously.

“That seems dangerous. On Halloween, I mean. Couldn’t we just go in my neighborhood where it is all brownstones?” Melody said. “I am afraid of the number thirteen? And black cats? And spiders?”

“Geez, Melody, Halloween doesn’t sound like your holiday,” Athena said. “Come on, let’s trick-or-treat at Veronica’s! We’ve never been to a real thirteenth floor on Halloween!”

Sarah-Lisa pouted. “But my building has so many more apartments, you guys. There are four wings. There will be so much more candy.”

“Yeah,” said Melody. “I don’t want any bad luck—”

“Please,” Athena begged. “We always trick-or-treat at your house. Let’s do something new.”

The idea that the A Team was coming through an open window, right into Veronica’s house, was thrilling. But because Veronica was Veronica, her joy was eclipsed by a scenario more terrifying than thirteen floors, black cats, and spiders combined: her mother acting out while her father told idiotic jokes.

She never should have asked everyone to come over.