And Brenda Married Me

Chapter 4
Chapter 4

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Chapter Description: I think I have this whole add chapter thing figured out now

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Brenda did not go to the funeral service. No one expected her to. She was too busy trying to collect on the life insurance policy she had taken out to worry about things like that. I don’t think she ever thought about the others.

The drive up to New England did us both good. I bought three tons of winter clothes in Vermont and New Hampshire, along with three tons of kids books and toys from ’home’. After the week was up, we drove back, so that we officially had picked up my records, and me from Massachusetts.

At home, I bought another ton of summer clothes in addition to everything I bought with Mrs. Owens, and I was ready to dress like a kid.

Roger pulled into the driveway, and I hopped out of the car. I saw a boy, my size, standing two houses away, with a smaller boy next to him. Little brother, I thought, as Roger started grumbling about all the stuff that we needed to get inside.

I agreed with him, walked to the back of the car as he opened the trunk, and this time I found myself nose to nose with the kid. I gave him a quick grin.

"Hi, I’m Tim -- Tim McAdams. Are you moving in?"

"Yeah. I just lost my folks, and Uncle Roger is taking me in.

"I’m sorry. That’s my little brother, Bobby, and...."

"Simon," Roger said. "We have a lot of work to do. You can meet the local kids, later."

My shoulders slumped down, and Tim gave me a quick grin and a nod. I nodded back.

"And what is all that about?" Roger asked me.

"It’s that whole secret society thing, Uncle Roger. We just gave each other the recognition signal."

"Secret Society?"

"It’s for kids our age," I said.

"He’s right, and he’s already told you too much. Any more and we will have to kill you."

Roger sighed. "I will secret society you, Tiger, if you don’t start moving stuff inside. And that goes for you, too, Buddy, or do you want to help Simon with his bags?"

"Sure," he said and grabbed a suitcase. I grabbed one, too. "Which one is my room?"

"Upstairs, down the hall and to the right," he said, without thinking.

"I thought that was your room," I said.

"Your other right, Simon. My room is the big one with all my stuff in it, okay? You get the little, itty bitty room, that doesn’t have my stuff in it. Okay?"

"I understand," I said. "Tim, watch out for Uncle Roger. He’s Dr. Roger Farrell, a medical researcher that translates into -- mad scientist. I used to be forty two before he slipped his latest formula in my drink."

He laughed. "This is so cool. Finally, I get someone as crazy as me in the neighborhood."

"Crazier," I said. "I really believe all that stuff."

He cracked up, and even Roger did as he helped with the stuff.

My room, wasn’t so itty bitty, and I had slept there before the aftershave, but it was nice giving Roger a hard time.

During the first two weeks, I recorded my jingle for Jake’s

Computers, and two radio spots from my ideas. I did the TV spot the week after. Jake hired both of us for his advertising from then on.

I could have died the morning the doorbell rang, and I ran to answer it, expecting Tim. Brenda stared down at me from the doorway.

"Who are you?"

"I’m Simon," I choked out.

"Where’s Roger Farrell?"

"Eating breakfast. I’ll get him...."

"Brenda, how nice to see you," Roger said from behind me. "I see you’ve met my nephew."

"I didn’t know you had kids."

"I told you about him a few weeks ago, remember? What brings you here?"

"What happened to my money?" she asked, and strolled inside. "Get rid of the kid, we need to talk."

I ran upstairs.

"What money?" Roger asked.

"The money from Simon’s Estate."

"I have no idea. That usually comes after the will is read, you know. Check with your lawyer, but from what I’ve been told that’s scheduled in three weeks."

"But I don’t have any money. Mr. Post gave me a check for Simon’s sick pay, and a bonus for all his years of service, but what about Simon’s paychecks? I’m not getting those."

"I hate to tell you this, but his paycheck’s stopped when he died. He can’t work to earn money anymore."

"That bastard. Where is he?"

"I bet he’s in Heaven right now writing wonderful music for his mother to listen to, in Hell. At Simon’s request, his body was cremated, and his ashes are interred in your cemetery plot. We had the funeral, and everything. I know you didn’t want to attend, but face it, Simon is gone. Till Death do us Part?"

"He would. He was always trying to write music."

"My Simon is making a fortune with it. He wrote and sang a new jingle for Jake’s Computers?"

After a long pause. "You mean you could get money for writing songs?"

"If it’s any good."

"I never knew that. Gloria hated the thought that Simon could have a career in music when she couldn’t. He could have made us a fortune, writing music, and I stopped him. Tell him to come back."

"Brena, I’ve only heard about one person that came back. For the rest of us it doesn’t work that way."

"I only want him to write a couple of songs so I can get rich, and he can go back to Hell, or wherever."

"Go find a medium. You see them all over town, you know. Maybe he could dictate his songs through one of them for you."

"But what about my life insurance money. They aren’t paying because they have to investigate the claim. He’s dead, what is there to investigate?"

"Brenda," Roger said, and I heard his sigh from upstairs. "I told you that. You took out a huge policy on your husband, and he dies less than two days later. That is really suspicious. I know, they called me. I told them that you could not have had anything to do with Simon’s death, but I didn’t lie for you either. I told them you knew he was dying when you took the policy out."

"I don’t care about that, but what am I going to do for money?"

"Ask Larry. He’s the one you left Simon for." Roger said, and I heard the anger in his voice.

"He’s waiting until he gets his share of the insurance money. Simon never did get the chance to blab to Sally."

"He was much too hurt. Do you have any idea what sort of hell you put him through? After twenty years together, you wouldn’t see him or talk to him when he was dying? He never meant anything to you, did he?"

"He was fun when we got married, but that got old. No, I never cared for him. He was just a big kid that I had to take care of. Okay, he made the money, but still...."

"Brenda, get out of my house. I never want to see you again. Oh, and by the way, you would do much better if you went blonde all the time."

"What’s that supposed to mean?"

"You have the brains of a cockroach. Get out, before I call the police."

I heard the door slam, and a moment later I heard her rev the engine before she took off. I ran downstairs, and threw my arms around Roger’s waist, and hugged.

"Thanks, Uncle Roger. If I ever had any doubts I made the right decision, I don’t anymore."

He patted my back. "You can let go now, Tiger. I know what you mean."

"I’ve got a bunch of new melodies for you to hear, or do you have to go back and work on Uncle Simon’s blood? Did I just say that?"

"You, go sit down, Tiger. We need to talk. You want anything?"

"A Coke," I said. I ran to the living room, and jumped backwards into a plush chair. "I’m sitting. I don’t believe I did that."

Roger walked back into the living room with drinks, and frowned as something beeped. He held a finger to his lips, and set the drinks down. He walked quickly back toward the kitchen. "Brenda? What are you doing back here? I thought I told you get out."

"I get half the money for that jingle, or I’m going to sue you and that brat."

"What? Simon didn’t write that jingle, the brat did. Get over it. I’m calling the cops now, and I will have you locked up for trespassing, and invasion of privacy at this point."

"You wouldn’t dare. Simon won’t let you."

"He’s gone. What is going to get through that thick skull of yours that your husband died. He was my best friend, and I put up with you for his sake, but I never liked you, not even for a second. Get out of my house, or do I give my kid the word to call 911?"

"I want money."

At that point, I picked up the phone and called the cops.

"Help," I told the operator. "There’s a crazy lady that broke into our house. She’s trying to get money."

"Brenda, I mean it. You are not getting one penny from me, or my nephew for anything. Get out."

"Not until you give me half of what he got for that jingle, or I will take you to court."

"I can hear her. How old are you?"

"Ten," I said, without hesitation,

"Stay on the phone, help will be right there."

I tried to shut Brenda’s voice out. How could I have lived with her for so long. It didn’t feel real anymore. Right now, the crazy lady demanding money from my Uncle felt real. The police sirens didn’t slow her tirade down for a second. I ran to open the door for the cops.

Roger looked relieved to see them, too. Brenda didn’t seem to care. "You heard me. I want that money, and now."

"Lamont Heights Police. What’s going on?"

"Officers, I’m Dr. Roger Farrell. I own this house. This woman broke into my house, and is demanding money from me, and my nephew. I want her removed, and I will press charges. I am also going to swear out a peace bond."

"You can’t arrest me. That brat is getting money that should have gone to my husband, and I want it."

"You want my allowance? It isn’t that much," I cut in.

"Can’t you shut that stupid brat up? I want that money."

"Officers, please, she’s she’s scaring the boy," Roger said.

"My husband would never let you do this. Simon will stop this. Where is he?"

"He’s dead," Roger half screamed.

"Lady, please step outside with us," one of the cops said.

"Wait, if Simon was that brat’s godfather, I’m his godmother."

"No you aren’t," I said. "That was Mom’s friend, Julie. She moved to Seattle, but she’s my godmother, not you."

"Ma’am, this way." This time, the cop almost picked her up, but they took her outside.

"I don’t like that lady at all. I know she was Uncle Simon’s wife, but.... What’s happening to me?’

"Go, throw yourself back into that seat. We need to talk. You want a fresh soda?"

"No, thanks." I ran back to the living room. I forced myself to sit down, and not jump. I shook my head as

Roger walked in with a cup of coffee.

"Brenda was my wife," I said. "Our song is still my song."

He raised his eyebrows.

"’The Class of 57’," I said. "And Brenda married me? That one. But it’s true that last verse, ’living life, day to day is never what is seems. Life gets complicated once you’re past eighteen. but the class of 57 had it’s dreams."

"I remember, and you do have a chance to live your dream, now, and in a big way. But, Tiger, don’t worry about what’s happening to you. It’s simple, really. Look, you, Dr. Kline, and I brought a new person into this world. Simon Farrell didn’t exist until a few weeks ago. Reality isn’t going to change to accommodate us, but our individual reality is changing.

"Let’s face it, Buddy. You’re ten years old, and there is no getting around that. You are going to act like a ten year old, and think like one, and our cover story is becoming your reality now. Let it happen, and don’t worry about it because it’s not something that you can stop."

I bounced in the chair for a moment. "Okay, but what about you? I get to be a kid, and sing, and play like a kid, but what about you?"

"Me, you know I’ve always wanted to be a dad. I never found anyone I wanted to be the mother of my children. After you married, that lady, I was less than thrilled with the thought of marriage for myself. So now, I get to be a dad. I have a son to take to ball games, and...."

"Yes!" I tried not to shout.

"And do other father-son stuff with."

"When do we go to the ballgame? The Griffins play almost every Saturday during the summer."

"I know, and we will...."

"Promise?" I asked him.

"Don’t push it, Tiger. You aren’t that much of a ten year old."

I gave him a wide grin. "Busted."

He laughed. "Yes, you are, and I am wise to tricks -- kids play. I used to play them myself. Okay, but today we go to the studio and cut another recording of ’The Journey Home.’

"Jake has been getting a lot of calls about you, and one from a really big fish. Jake couldn’t believe it, and neither can I, but Steve Corbin wants to hear anything else you’ve recorded."

"The richest man on the planet wants to hear me?"

"He’s not that rich, and yes, he does. He will hear you, too."

"Yes, dad."

"That’s the spirit, son. Okay, we need to leave in a few for the studio."

I sat down at the piano, and Roger slung his guitar over his shoulder. The techs gave us directions, and moved the mike closer to me.

I waited for my cue, and closed my eyes as I let my fingers play the intro. I sang the song, and almost cried myself. It was a simple song, about a broken family healing the hurts, and building a family again. It wasn’t sad so much as poignant. It had an uplifting ending, that I sang quietly, and let the chords modulate to a major key before fading out.

During the recording, I barely heard Roger’s guitar. I turned around from the piano to see every tech walking into the room, rubbing their eyes, and clapping.

"Did you want to do that again? I didn’t hear the guitar."

Roger shook his head. "You’ll hear it on the playback, but I am not about to try to make that sound any better. That was it, kiddo, and we are in."

After accepting the congratulations of everyone in the studio, I listened to the playback, and agreed with Roger, there was no getting that better.

"This is going straight to Steve Corbin himself," Roger said. "We need the master as soon as possible."

"Can you wait half an hour, Dr. Farrell? It will be ready. I don’t suppose you’d let me take a copy home?"

"Sorry, but we would all be dead," he said.

The oddest thing about the whole thing was that as soon as I got home, I forgot about the recording session. I wanted to ride my new bike, and ride it, I did.

I still found it odd. Tim and I rode bikes everywhere, I spent as much time at his place as ours, and his Mom practically took over my care from Roger. A boy needs a mother, too.

I found that I needed a lot of noise, now, to concentrate. I could compose on the piano, while Tim watched TV or played a video game on my new PC.

"Okay," Roger said one afternoon. "Rug rats, attention. Turn the tube to channel 13."

"What’s eating you?" I asked him.

"You’ll see."

I grabbed the remote and changed the channel. After the show went to break, the first commercial was mine, for Jake’s Computers.

"Hey, Simon, isn’t that you?"

"Sure is. Hang on."

The commercial ran it’s course, about a Mom, complaining about all the activities she had scheduled for her son that prevented him from fixing her computer issues. Finally, I said, "Mom, either let me drop soccer, football and baseball, or you can call Jake’s Computers. They can fix anything, and I’ve heard some of their techs know more than me."

"Good idea, sweetheart," she said. The picture showed her calling as my recording of the jingle played in the background.

Tim stared at me with his mouth open. "You sang that?"

"Yeah. I wrote it."

"You can sing. Man, you can sing. You ever think of doing cds?"

"Yes, in fact I just recording our song. I wrote the music, and he wrote the words. We’re waiting to see if anyone buys it."

"I will. I gotta tell Mom about this."

Two days later, Tim stopped me on the bike. "You gotta come to my place, please."

"What’s the matter?"

"Mom just saw that comercial and is all over me about not fixing her computer. I told her and told her I didn’t know how, and she wants the whiz kid on the commercial.

I told her it was just you, but she didn’t believe me."

Tim didn’t have to drag me back to his place, but I felt like I might need it. I walked in with him, and picked Bobby up. "Hey, squirt."

"Simon?" Mrs. McAdams asked. "That was you in the commercials?’

"Sure was, and I sang the jingle, too."

"Tim doesn’t know anything about computers. Could you show him? I’m having problems with mine."

"I’m not the computer whiz like in the commercials. What’s it doing?"

She led me into the living room, and pointed to her machine. "That."

"Oh, hang on. I know how to fix that," I said. "It’s a virus. You need to update your anti-virus program, or get one, but that one isn’t that bad." I rebooted the computer to safe mode, and removed the code from the registry. I rebooted it back, double checked her software, and shook my head.

"I’m not plugging for Mr. Post, but they have a good program. Get this." I said and wrote out the name of the anti-virus software. And tell Mr. Post I sent you, and he can work something out."

"Simon, you’re a lifesaver," she said. "I thought it was a virus, but I wasn’t sure. Can you teach these guys that?"

Tim nodded his head. "And you said you weren’t a whiz."

"I’m not, I’ve had that virus before and I knew what to do about it."

"That was something else, I’ll never learn that stuff."

"It’s not hard," I said. My phone rang. With a frown, I answered it.

"Hey, kiddo, get your butt home, and now. I’m expecting a call from Mr. Corbin’s office."

"Gotta go."

"Bye," Tim said as I ran out the door.

I peddled home, and almost dropped the bike on the driveway as I saw a large station wagon pull into it. A man stepped out of the car, leaving two boys inside.

"Hi, are you Simon?"

I nodded. "Hi, Mr. Corbin. Glad to meet you," I said and held out my hand. "You want to come in."

"You know who I am?" he asked.

"Yeah, from two million pictures in the paper," I said with a grin. "You want to come in? Uncle Roger’s expecting a phone call, but this is better."

"I asked you if you know who I am?" Man, he sounded huffy.

"What? Yeah, you own most of the planet. You’re number three on the list of the world’s richest men. Oh, look, if I said something wrong, I’m sorry. I’m from Massachusetts, and if your last name isn’t Kennedy, it doesn’t count."

He closed his eyes, clenched his fists for a moment, then cracked up. "Simon, I have never been put in my place more perfectly than that. You and I are going get along famously. If your Uncle would let me, I’d adopt you."

"Dad, are you okay?" one of the boys from the car asked and rushed around from the passenger side.

"My son, Alexander. Sandy, get that machine out and write this down. I am going to have it printed and framed for all of my offices."

"Whoa," I said as I looked at Sandy’s gadget. "I want one of those."

"Dad ordered this special, for me," Sandy said. "You are going to be bigger than the piano player, back there...."

"Take a note, get Simon one of these, too. Now, type this out. ’I’m from Massachusetts, and if your last name isn’t Kennedy, it doesn’t count."

"You said that to my Dad?" he asked me.

"Yeah," I said with a shrug.

He gave me a high five. "I can’t wait to tell that to Mom. Dad sometimes forgets he’s not the emperor of the world. I am."

I laughed, and opened the door for Kyle Gray. "You staying in there, or what?"

"I thought I could write music, you know. If I had any idea who you were when I had you cornered at the Owen’s Hotel, you would not be standing here, today. Would you sing at my next recital?"

"Sure. I’d love to, but I can’t write music like you do."

"No, and I can’t write music like you, either. Uncle Steve cried like a baby when he heard that song the first time."

Mr. Corbin nodded his head. "I received the package you’re Uncle sent, yesterday morning. I knew you were going to something special when I heard you on the commercials, and I asked my secretary to play it. I was not expecting that song. I cried my eyes out, and so did everyone in the office. You are an incredible singer, and songwriter."

I blushed. "Thanks. Uncle Roger wrote the song, I just wrote the music. Come on, I think he’s waiting to meet you."

I opened the front door, and yelled out. "Uncle Roger."

"You took your time getting home."

"Yeah, the tycoon, his son, and the piano player are here. You want to meet them?"

Roger walked into the hallway. "What? Oh. Oh!," he said as recognition set in. "Mr. Corbin. I’m Roger Farrell. Your office said your agents would call."

"I thought I’d bring the office to you. In fact," he said and glanced my way. "Simon, why don’t you show Sandy and Paul around?"

"Paul?" I asked him.

"Yeah, my real name. Long story."

"We’ve got a music studio," I said, begging off on the long story, I led the way, and even Sandy whistled.

Kyle sat down at a keyboard. "Okay, Simon, have you written anything else?"

"Sure, lots of things. Trying to work out the lyrics, but here," I said, and printed off a copy of a finished piece.

He read through it and shook his head.

"Hang on." He turned on a keyboard and called out. "Uncle Steve? Uncle Steve."

"What is it?"

"You had better hear this. The brat wrote it."

"Why does everyone call me a brat?"

"Because you are a brat," Mr. Corbin said.

Kyle played my song. I turned pages for him, until he finished. He stood up and clapped. "I know when I’m licked."

"You didn’t tell me about that one," Roger said. "That was great."

Mr. Corbin sighed. "I will have to double my offer for that one. You know, Roger, when you make a song from that, there won’t be anyone on the planet that doesn’t know Simon’s name."

"It’s a deal," Roger said. "Kid, we have just become incredibly rich."

"Cool," I said with a shrug. "I still get to write music, don’t I?"

"No," Kyle cut in. "Rich kids like you, and my dear cousin, Alexander, don’t get to do things like that. You have be the new media darling, and cause scandals all over the world, so you won’t have time to write music."

"You never made any money with your music, did you?" I asked him.

"What do you mean? I’m richer than both of you put

together."

"Okay, then why don’t you and me write music, together sometime, while Sandy goes out and has all those scandals -- or sandals, or something,"

"Okay, partner," he said, and shook my hand.

"Now then," Mr. Corbin cut in, "since we do have a deal, I took the liberty of flying copies of Simon’s song to every radio station I own. They are all on standby waiting to air it. But, I did promise the local station they would be first. Sandy, where is your mother?"

"At home."

"Good, I’m going to call her first, then the station."

"I’d better call Mrs. Owens," Paul said. "She has to hear this, too." He pulled out a phone, and dialed. "Hey, it’s me. I want you to drop whatever you’re doing and turn on the radio." He gave her the call letters and number. "Get the twins, and anyone else in the entire hotel.

"Remember Simon Farrell? They’re going to play his song. You have to hear it. Thanks."

"What did Mom say?" Sandy asked his dad,

"She can’t believe I spent that much money on an unknown kid singer."

Roger tuned the radio in, and we all waited.

"This is a special announcement from WSCB the Valley’s biggest station. Ladies and Gentlemen, this station has been awarded the unbelievable honor of being the first station to broadcast a new song, by a new singer, who is going to be huge.

"Everyone that can hear me, please call anyone and everyone you can for this. Anyone driving home please, pull over to the side of the road, or turn off the radio now before you have an accident.

"In all of my years broadcasting, I have never heard a song like this. The singer, and composer is ten years old. That’s right, he’s a ten year old boy named Simon Farrell. The lyrics are by his uncle, Dr. Roger Farrell of Lamont Heights. Now, get ready. And if you have an accident now, you can’t blame us. Ladies and Gentlemen of the world, I give you -- ’The Journey Home’."

I still didn’t believe that voice was mine. After the song finished, the DJ was back on the air. "I have five hundred requests so far to hear that again, and we will. Keep in mind that the music is encoded so that you will not be able to record the song from this broadcast. Anyone trying to share that song online before it becomes available for download will be taken out and shot. You are not stealing profits from a huge corporation, but taking money from that little kid. Once again, ’The Journey Home."

Mr. Corbin answered his phone. "Well?...."

"Okay, the switchboard has more lights on it than New York City. If you can’t get through please be patient. Once again, that was newcomer, Simon Farrell. Word has it that Simon will be appearing with Kyle Gray this weekend at the Owen’s Hotel."

Paul’s phone rang. "Hi. No, I didn’t know what Uncle Steve was planning when I asked Simon to sing at my recital, Okay, it’s his recital now, but...." Here, he said and handed me the phone.

"Hi, Aunt Marian."

"Okay, we are going to have to have the recital on Miller’s Field to seat everyone, and the twins are going crazy for your song, too."

"Tell them I said ’hi’."

I gave the phone back, and Mr. Corbin hung up. "Okay, that went well. Roger, Winnifred would love to have you, and your nephew over for dinner tonight. We do have plenty of room if you would like to stay instead of driving home tonight. And, I am to triple the offer I made to you earlier or sleep on the sofa, as it were, for the next month.

"I think I made a very fair offer, but she’s in fund-raising mode, and wants to make sure, since Simon lost his parents, that his musical education is paid for, and...."

"I understand, Steve. Oh, and I hate to tell you this, but I will accept the new offer, for Simon’s sake, you know."

Kyle patted my shoulder. "Don’t worry, when Aunt Winnie has a dinner, it’s a world class dining experience."

"I don’t care if it’s hot dogs. I wanted to see the house."

"You will," Sandy said. "We will attach a transmitter around your neck so that if you get lost we can find you in less than a week."

 

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