The Doldrums and the Helmsley Curse. Nicholas Gannon

few times. Stories?

      “He means the tigers,” Grandma Helmsley clarified, pulling a tray from a cabinet and setting three cups on it.

      Grandpa Helmsley slapped the table, his green eyes sparkling. “The tigers!”

      “But more importantly,” Grandma Helmsley said, “that you and two friends put together a plan in the hopes of finding us.”

      “We did,” Archer replied. “But that’s not a good story. We failed miserably.”

      “Miserably?” Grandpa Helmsley roared. “You mean it failed gloriously!”

      “While it was a dangerous thing to have happened,” his grandmother said, lifting the whistling kettle off the stove, “when we heard why it happened, well, we were tickled pink.”

      “I was tickled purple!” Grandpa Helmsley said, his eyes still twinkling. “Outrunning tigers? I’ve never heard of such a thing! You’re a Helmsley all the way to the stars, Archer!”

      “I can’t imagine Helena was thrilled about it,” Grandma Helmsley said, joining them at the table and pouring everyone a cup.

      “No,” Grandpa Helmsley agreed. “But don’t give us this ‘It’s not a good story’ nonsense, Archer. We want to hear all about it. And don’t spare a single detail.”

      Archer had never imagined his grandparents would be eager to hear his story, especially with so many more important things to discuss. When he’d finished telling it, his grandparents were silent. Grandpa Helmsley’s whole face had welled up. Grandma Helmsley patted his shoulder gently.

      “Don’t let your grandfather’s scruffy outsides fool you, Archer. Inside, he’s as soft and sweet as a caramel.”

      Grandpa Helmsley chuckled and cleared his throat. “Forget the caramel, Archer. It’s only that, what I mean is—look at you! You’re completely grown! And we missed it.”

      “Now you’re talking nonsense,” Grandma Helmsley said. “He still has plenty of growing up to do. That’s not to say you’re underdeveloped, Archer.”

      Grandpa Helmsley sized him up. “Tad short for your age. And skinny like your father. But with a bit of elbow grease, you’ll sprout like an oak! The Society will help with that. Once you’re a—”

      “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Grandma Helmsley urged.

      Grandpa Helmsley sipped his tea. “Yes, lots to sort out first.”

      “Like the iceberg?” Archer asked hesitantly.

      Grandpa Helmsley leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “What have you heard, Archer?”

      “Lots of things.”

      “People do love to talk.” Grandma Helmsley shook her head in disgust. “Especially when they’ve not the slightest idea what they’re talking about. Makes them feel clever.”

      “They’re saying you wanted the iceberg to happen,” Archer explained. “They’re saying you wanted to vanish. They’re saying you went—” He stopped, not wanting to tell his grandparents the part about them being unhinged. But it was clear they already knew.

      Grandpa Helmsley reddened liked a stubbed toe. “It’s complete rubbish, Archer. You mustn’t believe a word of it.”

      “So what happened? How did you survive the iceberg?”

      “Well,” Grandpa Helmsley said, running his fingers through his beard. “While I can promise we were on an iceberg, Archer, it wasn’t for two years. It was more like, three days. Give or take.”

      “Three days? So where were you all this—”

      Archer fell silent. His mother had suddenly appeared, standing frozen by the kitchen door, staring at his grandparents’ backs the way one typically stares at ghosts. Grandma and Grandpa Helmsley spun around.

      “HELENA!”

      It was only one word, but even that seemed too much for her. She tried to respond, but instead glugged like a jug of water held upside down. And she went on glugging until eventually, she glugged, “You’re dead!”

      To be fair, it probably wasn’t what she’d planned on saying.

      “I’m dead?” Grandpa Helmsley repeated, winking at Archer as he glanced himself over. “Well, I do wish someone had told me sooner. That’s the sort of thing people like to know. It’s odd, though. I don’t feel dead. Do you feel dead, Rachel?”

      Mrs. Helmsley flushed. “That’s not what I… I didn’t mean to… I apologize if I—”

      “Now, don’t you apologize, Helena,” Grandma Helmsley said, giving Grandpa Helmsley an eye that said many things. “Ralph’s having a bit of fun with you, is all. It’s as much a shock to us as it is to you.”

      Archer wasn’t sure if that was possible. He’d never seen anyone look more shocked than his mother did. And he guessed her shock would not quickly vanish.

      Everyone got to their feet when Mr. Helmsley entered. Archer’s father looked like a toothpick next to his grandfather.

      “Still as spindly as ever,” Grandpa Helmsley said, clamping his giant hands on Mr. Helmsley’s skinny shoulders. “I told you all that sitting around a law office was no good. It’s never too late to change course! The order may have openings!”

      “You might need a good lawyer,” Mr. Helmsley replied with a smile.

      “Isn’t that what you’d call a conflict of interest?”

      Mrs. Helmsley had been inching her way toward the dining room and finally escaped.

      Grandma Helmsley smothered Archer’s father in a hug and then fixed his hair. “It’s been quite an ordeal, Richard.”

      “Icebergs often are,” he replied, ushering them back to the table. “Why don’t you tell me about it?”

      “Archer!” Mrs. Helmsley called. “Please come here immediately. I need help… reorganizing the silverware drawers!”

      Archer looked to his grandfather, wanting to join them at the table to find out what was going on.

      “Don’t you worry, Archer,” Grandpa Helmsley assured him. “We’re not going anywhere.”

      ♦ DRIP, DRIP, DRIP ♦

      “I’m going to repeat what I said yesterday,” Mrs. Helmsley said when Archer stepped into the dining room. Her hands were trembling. “It’s very important that you spend more time outside. You should know there are certain accusations against your grandparents. I’m not sure what to believe, but I’m worried they’re not entirely… sane. Less so than usual, I mean.”

      Mrs. Helmsley shut the silverware drawer, which looked exactly as it had when she’d opened it, and led him to a closet filled with cleaning supplies. “I need to see for myself, and you need to keep yourself busy.” She handed him a feather duster.

      “What am I dusting?” Archer asked.

      Mrs. Helmsley inspected the spotless dining room but, like Archer, saw nothing.

      “The curtains! Dust the curtains!”

      Archer grumbled as he went to the window. Do people even dust curtains? He raised the duster, but paused and peered through a slit between the fabric panels. A truck was idling outside his house. He squinted at the driver. Is that the crooked man?

      Before the tiger incident, he, Oliver, and Adélaïde had visited a dilapidated expedition supply shop called Strait of Magellan. The crooked man was the nasty owner of the shop—a man who’d made lots of money betting that Archer’s grandparents were dead.

      “What’s