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“Don’t be daft, Tom,” his father sighed. “You know what married is. We fell in love—”
“Is that like falling into a chasm or a canyon or a hole?”
“No. We fell in love and we wanted to make you—”
“What did you make me out of? I think it must have been out of onions and potatoes and Gwendolyn’s necklaces and rum because I like those things so much.” Thomas beamed and forked another bite of manticore-loaf into his mouth.
“What do you mean you like rum? Who gave you rum?”
“It’s the brown stuff in the cabinet that tastes
like cake on fire. I gave some to the phonograph and she drank it all up, so I know it’s good.”
Nicholas Rood colored from his neck up.
“It’s fine, Nick,” Gwendolyn hushed him. “It only warped the Bill Broonzy record; you don’t even listen to that one anymore.”
Dr. Rood took a deep breath, swallowed the loss of the Broonzy, and plowed on. “We fell in love and we wanted to make you, and the Normal thing to do is to get married, so we went down to a church—”
“Oh! Was it the Wizard’s Palace?”
“What? What are you talking about?”
“The Wizard’s Palace!” Thomas cried, squirming with excitement in his chair. “On Wabash Avenue!”
“He means Holy Name,” Gwendolyn chuckled into her peas. “You have to admit it looks rather spectacular. If I were a wizard, I’d ring up my real estate agent.”
“Well, yes, then. That was the place. Your mother wore a white dress—”
“Her witch’s cloak,” Thomas breathed, enchanted.
“No! For God’s sake, what’s gotten into you? Your mother is not a witch, Holy Name Cathedral is not a wizard’s palace, and you are not made of necklaces and rum! We went to a church and Father Lawrence married us and we danced all night under the stars and ate cake and it was beautiful. Now be quiet and EAT YOUR PEAS!”
Thomas held his breath. He picked up a pea and squashed it between his fingers, so hard his fingertips turned red. And he breathed it out all in a rush:
“You fell into a chasm and wanted to make a Thomas and so you went to the Wizard’s Palace and put on magic clothes and a Wizard said magic words over you and then you danced in mystical circles so the stars would love you best and you ate the enchanted cake of the Kingdom of Married and it was beautiful and now you eat peas and not polar bears.”
Nicholas Rood stared at his son. He pushed his glasses up on top of his nose.
“You could still be married and ride polar bears across the Wild Yukon, though.” Thomas went on happily squishing peas, one by one. “Do you know that Redcaps—even the girl-caps!—have nine murderwives each who only appear when blood is spilt in the homehearth? I’ve read about it. If you conquered the Wild Yukon, Gwen could have a murderwife and she wouldn’t be lonely, so you wouldn’t have to worry. I should like a murderwife better than a nanny, I think. And satyrs turn into giant mountain goats when they want mates. I think being a giant mountain goat is better than a white dress. And trolls!”
“I won’t hear one word more about trolls, Thomas Rood. Or the Wild Yukon or your ghastly murderwives. Why can’t you be a Normal child? I’m sure you don’t get this from my side of the family. The Roods are not a morbid lot. Now sit up straight and no more chatter or it’s to bed with you.” Nicholas bit off his words like mouthfuls of mountain.
“But I shan’t,” mumbled Thomas, and squashed another pea. He hated it when Nicholas said Normal. He could always hear the capital N. It made his skin burn and his eyes tickle like they always did before he was definitely going to cry. “Trolls don’t sit up straight. They have marvelous hunchbacks like camels and inside their hunches there’s precious gems like pearls in oysters. Hunchbacks are more beautiful than weddings and I want one so I shan’t I shan’t I shan’t sit up, not ever!”
Nicholas heaved a great sigh and looked mournfully at his wife.
“Gwen, our Tom is Not Normal. I think I really ought to take him down to the office to see Dr. Malory. He specializes in children, you know.”
“No, I am not Normal!” cried Thomas, and jumped up on his chair. He was always jumping up on things so that he could be taller, because trolls and other worthwhile things were always tall. “I am Sir Thomas the Un-Normal and all shall bow down to me! If Sir Malory comes near me with his squinty eyes and his stinky pipe, I shall turn him into a toad with my magic pencil!”
So went the song of Thomas Rood. Something is Not Normal about that boy. Thomas, that is Not what Normal Children do. Stop that racket, Tommy, it’s Not Normal!
Thomas did not have any clear idea what Normal meant, except that it was something Gwendolyn and Nicholas were, and Mysterious Unnamed Other Children also were, and possibly Grocers and Teachers and Street Sweepers as well, but that Thomas was not. Despite the awful hurt that capital N did to his raw, naked heart, Thomas was still a little boy—at least, mostly a little boy—and he did not like his father to be sour. He began to collect Normals, so that he could identify them on sight. Anything to keep him away from Dr. Malory and his miserable, smoky, stuffy office where even the bookshelves seemed to frown.
It was Normal to eat your supper all up and go to bed on time and count sheep to get to sleep. It was Not Normal to try to fit your whole supper into your mouth at once because trolls have mouths so big they can swallow basilisks and leap upon the sideboard and holler at the top of your lungs that the Wicked Realm of Bedtime had no power over you and if the vicious were-sheep that ruled there came near you you would slash them all to pieces with your butter knife and pour hot milk over their heads from the battlements. It was Normal to put more wood in the stove if it got cold, or if boiled water was wanted for tea. It was Not Normal to open the grate and feed the bones of the Ravening Oak Golem to the burning red mouth of Jøtun, the King of Fire and Pancakes. It was Normal to take the nice things your mother knits for you and say, Thank you, they are very nice. Especially if she has made you a sweater with matching mittens and scarves and a long, oversize hat with a long tail and a pom on the end, blue and orange and red and green, with row after row of polar bears and kangaroos knitted into it, which is quite a lot of work. It was Not Normal to stretch the hat out so you could fit inside it up to your neck and fall down the stairs screaming that you are not Thomas, but Horace the Genie of Ten Thousand Burnt Toasts and you are here to take back all your wishes. It was Normal, when your mother offered to knit you any sort of animal you liked out of all the mismatched bits of scrap yarn she had left over, to ask for a moose or a bear or a lion or a dog and be grateful because after all the toys you’ve destroyed you oughtn’t get another one ever. It was Not Normal to say that mooses and lions and dogs are nothing more than ugly horses and pussycats and lazy layabout wolves and insist on a wombat when your mother has no idea what a wombat is, even though it was obvious to anyone that wombats are the best creatures ever invented because they are muscley and strong and angry and fierce and have square dung and boney rumps and sharp teeth and soft squishy faces and pouches where you could hide all your treasures and if wombats were kings of the world everything would be a lot better than it is now. It was especially Not Normal, when your mother said mooses are also fierce and angry and far bigger than wombats, and live practically next door to Wisconsin, to tear around the house hollering: “WOMBAT! WOMBAT! ONLY WOMBATS! I AM THE WOMBAT PRINCE OF CHICAGO!” at the ceiling until she relented.
But Thomas did learn. He learned to put on Normal like a hat. When Gwendolyn presented him with his wombat, every color of yarn you can think of, thick and thin and frayed and braided and ribbons and cords, with one red button eye and one brass one and silver cloak-clasps for teeth, he whispered:
