Thanks to the severe trauma I’d suffered, I didn’t manage to fall back to sleep until 5:00 a.m. It was eleven the next morning when I finally woke up.
I got out of my pyjamas and slipped on yesterday’s clothes. I didn’t want to go downstairs. Even though I was pretty sure The Wiener would be long gone by now, I knew I was destined for one of Mom’s talks.
I was half-right. When I got downstairs, I found Rosie in the living room, snuggled up to Dudley while he read her Stanley’s Party, one of her favourite books. I couldn’t even look at him.
‘Where’s Mom?’
‘She’s having a shower,’ Dudley replied, and he blushed.
Good, I thought. You should be embarrassed! You should also buy some new pants and a gym membership!
‘Rosie, where’s Mom?’ I asked, ignoring Dudley.
‘Dudley just said. She’s having a shower.’ Then she looked up at Dudley with big adoring eyes. ‘Keep reading.’
‘You can read later, Rosie. Let’s go to Liberty Bakery and get some treats.’
‘Too late. Me and Dudley already went,’ she replied.
My insides felt sour. ‘But I always go with you.’
‘You was sleeping,’ she said simply.
‘We brought you back a monster-sized scone. And Ingrid made a big fruit salad. I’ll get a plate ready for you,’ said Dudley, starting to get up.
‘I’m not hungry,’ I said, even though my stomach was growling loud enough for them to hear.
‘I wanted to mention...’ Dudley continued, and for one horrified moment, I thought he was going to bring up the traumatising events of last night, ‘... if you ever need help with your maths homework, I’m a bit of a whiz...’
I gave him the hairy eyeball, which shut him up. Mom entered the living room a moment later, dressed for the day, her hair freshly washed.
‘Good. You’re up. Why don’t you come into the kitchen with me for a moment?’
Sigh.
I shuffled into the kitchen behind her. Mom poured herself a cup of coffee. I leaned against the counter.
‘I want to apologise again, Violet. I should have told you Dudley might stay over.’
‘Yes. You should have.’
‘The truth is, it took us by surprise, too.’
Ew. ‘Yeah, well. Don’t let it happen again,’ I said.
There was a pause. ‘I can’t promise that—’
Suddenly a sound reverberated through the house – a sound I hadn’t heard in over a year.
‘The doorbell’s working,’ I said.
My mom smiled. ‘Dudley fixed it this morning.’
From where I stood, I could see Dudley as he answered the door. Our door. It was some guy from Greenpeace, and Dudley started chatting to him about climate change. Rosie ran to join him. She leaned into him and wrapped her little arms around his leg, as if she was afraid that if she didn’t, he’d leave and never come back.
‘He’s going to fix the washing machine next,’ Mom continued. ‘Apparently it just needs a new thingamajig. We won’t have to do laundry at Phoebe’s any more.’
‘We?’
‘You know what I meant—’
‘Nobody asked him to fix our doorbell.’
Mom took a deep breath. ‘You’re right. He just went ahead and did it while I was making coffee.’
‘He should have asked first.’
‘Violet—’
‘It’s not his doorbell! It’s our doorbell!’ I felt tears pricking my eyes, and I hated myself for it. I jumped up and ran out of the kitchen, pushing past Dudley, Rosie, and the Greenpeace guy at the door.
‘You’re not wearing shoes!’ Rosie shouted after me.
I didn’t care. All I could see was black. I felt like I wanted to punch something or someone. I felt like I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs.
At Phoebe’s house, Günter opened the front door. He took in my T-shirt and bare feet. ‘I’ll get you some slippers’ was all he said as he pulled me into their house.
•••
‘You saw him naked?’
‘Not totally, thank God. He was wearing pants.’
We were sitting in Phoebe’s bedroom. Günter had brought me a bowl of porridge, which I was devouring.
‘What kind?’
‘Briefs. Old ones. They were all saggy in the bum.’ I shuddered at the memory. ‘He probably gets his underwear at yard sales, too.’
‘So, they must have, you know, dot dot dot...’
‘Duh.’
I slurped up the last of the brown-sugar-flavoured milk from my porridge bowl. ‘You know the weird part?’ I continued. ‘The dot dot dot doesn’t bug me as much as the doorbell. The doorbell makes me crazy.’
‘That’s because it’s not about the doorbell,’ Phoebe said. ‘It’s about what the doorbell represents. If your dad was still living with you, he would have fixed the doorbell, right? That sort of stuff was his territory, as man of the house.’
‘I guess so, yeah.’
‘So by fixing your doorbell, Dudley’s acting like he’s the man of the house. It’s like he’s auditioning to become your father’s replacement.’
I groaned; it was worse than I thought. ‘And Mom and Rosie are falling for it.’
‘You really dislike him, huh?’
‘There’s just something about him, Phoebe. He’s always this jokey kind of guy... but it’s like there’s something darker lurking underneath.’
Phoebe thought for a moment. ‘OK, then. Here’s what we need to do. One, more detective work. And two,’ she grabbed her laptop from under a pile of dirty socks on the floor, ‘you need to write another letter to George Clooney. And write one to his manager while you’re at it.’
This is what I wrote.
Dear Sir:
I sent your client, George Clooney, a letter a few weeks ago. Yesterday I received a form letter in response. I won’t lie: that hurt.
It also made me suspect that you, Sir, are not actually giving him his mail. I am positive that if George had actually read my letter, he would have responded. Don’t deny it; I’m on to you.
George deserves to read his own letters. He is not a child. Remember: you work for George. George does not work for you.
I am enclosing a copy of the letter I sent on January 19 in the hopes that this time, Sir, you will do the right thing and give my letter to the man it was intended for.
Thank you in advance,
Violet Gustafson
Dear Mr Clooney,
Hello again. It’s me, Violet Gustafson, Ingrid’s daughter. I hope that by the time you read this, your manager has done the right thing and passed on the letter I sent you almost a month ago (I’ll enclose another copy just in case). You should really have a talk with him, George. I don’t have actual physical proof, but I’m almost positive he’s reading your mail and not even giving you a chance to see it. Maybe it’s time for a new manager.
(George’s manager, if you are reading this right now, STOP. Take a long look at yourself in the mirror and DO THE RIGHT THING.)
Anyway, George – please read my letter. If you detect a note of urgency in my tone this time, you would be correct. See, last time I wrote, my mom had just started dating this guy named Dudley Wiener (yes, it’s his real name). I didn’t bother mentioning him because, to be honest, I figured he’d be like the dinosaurs by now, i.e., ancient history.
But he isn’t, George. It’s over a month later and he’s still very much in the picture. Trust me when I say she deserves so much better. So please – don’t wait a moment longer. Respond to my letter ASAP.
With anticipation and appreciation,
Violet Gustafson
Phoebe and I printed the letters and put them into two separate envelopes. We walked to the corner and put them into the mailbox. Then we went back to her place to eat bagels and cream cheese from Solly’s and strategise about our next stakeout.
WHEN: Next Saturday.
WHERE: Dudley’s house.
OBJECTIVE: If The Wiener has a skeleton in his closet, we will find it.